Professional Documents
Culture Documents
BY
JANE AUSTEN
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VOLUME I
CHAPTER I
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as
a governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of
Emma. Between them it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even before Miss
Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the mildness of
her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow
of authority being now long passed away, they had been living together as
friend and friend very mutually attached, and Emma doing just what she
liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor's judgment, but directed chiefly by her
own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having
rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of
herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many
enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they
did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.
The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston
was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and
pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with what
self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and promoted the
match; but it was a black morning's work for her. The want of Miss Taylor
would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her past kindness—the
kindness, the affection of sixteen years—how she had taught and how she
had played with her from five years old—how she had devoted all her
powers to attach and amuse her in health—and how nursed her through the
various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but
the intercourse of the last seven years, the equal footing and perfect
unreserve which had soon followed Isabella's marriage, on their being left to
each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend
and companion such as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful,
gentle, knowing all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns,
and peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of
hers—one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had
such an affection for her as could never find fault.
How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her friend was going
only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the
difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss
Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic, she
was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude. She dearly
loved her father, but he was no companion for her. He could not meet her
in conversation, rational or playful.
The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had
not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits; for
having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind or body,
he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though everywhere
beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable temper, his talents
could not have recommended him at any time.
Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony,
being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily
reach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled
through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from Isabella
and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house, and give her
pleasant society again.
"Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What a pity it is that
Mr. Weston ever thought of her!"
"I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such
a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a
good wife;—and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever,
and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her own?"
"A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a house of her
own? This is three times as large.—And you have never any odd humours,
my dear."
"How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see us!—
We shall be always meeting! We must begin; we must go and pay wedding
visit very soon."
"The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a
little way;—and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our
visit?"
"They are to be put into Mr. Weston's stable, papa. You know we have
settled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last night.
And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going to
Randalls, because of his daughter's being housemaid there. I only doubt
whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing, papa.
You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till you
mentioned her—James is so obliged to you!"
"I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would not
have had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am
sure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I
have a great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always curtseys and
asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you have had her
here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock of the door the
right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an excellent servant;
and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor to have somebody about
her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes over to see his daughter,
you know, she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how we all
are."
"Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must
draw back from your great fire."
"But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not
catch cold."
"Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here.
It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I
wanted them to put off the wedding."
"By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of
what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my
congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all
behave? Who cried most?"
"Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say
'poor Miss Taylor.' I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it
comes to the question of dependence or independence!—At any rate, it
must be better to have only one to please than two."
"I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a
sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome."
"My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean you, or suppose Mr.
Knightley to mean you. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself.
Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know—in a joke—it is all a
joke. We always say what we like to one another."
Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults
in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and
though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it
would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really
suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every
body.
"Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no
reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to
please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a
gainer."
"Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass—"you want to hear about the
wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly.
Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and
hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be
only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."
"Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr.
Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure
she will miss her more than she thinks for."
Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is
impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr.
Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could
suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's
advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time
of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be
secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel
so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have
her so happily married."
"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a
very considerable one—that I made the match myself. I made the match,
you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the
right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may
comfort me for any thing."
Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my
dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever
you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches."
"I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for
other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such
success, you know!—Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry
again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who
seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied
either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable
wherever he went, always cheerful—Mr. Weston need not spend a single
evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly
would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife
on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All
manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none
of it.
"Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss Taylor and I met
with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted
away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from
Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match
from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance,
dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making."
"I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'" said Mr. Knightley.
"Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately
spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about
this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady's mind! But if, which
I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your
planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, 'I think it would be a very
good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,' and saying it
again to yourself every now and then afterwards, why do you talk of
success? Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You made a lucky
guess; and that is all that can be said."
"And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky
guess?— I pity you.—I thought you cleverer—for, depend upon it a lucky
guess is never merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my
poor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so
entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures; but I
think there may be a third—a something between the do-nothing and the
do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and given many little
encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might not have come
to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield enough to
comprehend that."
"Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr.
Elton, papa,—I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in
Highbury who deserves him—and he has been here a whole year, and has
fitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have him
single any longer—and I thought when he was joining their hands to-day,
he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same kind office
done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I have
of doing him a service."
"Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good
young man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to shew him
any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day. That
will be a much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to
meet him."
"With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time," said Mr. Knightley,
laughing, "and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much better thing.
Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fish and the
chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a man of six
or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself."
CHAPTER II
Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his
military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire
family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized,
except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were
full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend.
Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of
her fortune—though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate—
was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite
mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due
decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much
happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a
husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing
due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him; but
though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolution
enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to
refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's unreasonable anger, nor
from missing the luxuries of her former home. They lived beyond their
income, but still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not
cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain
Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.
It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his
schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it had
not shaken his determination of never settling till he could purchase
Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had
gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were accomplished.
He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was
beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater
happiness than in any yet passed through. He had never been an unhappy
man; his own temper had secured him from that, even in his first marriage;
but his second must shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly
amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest proof of its
being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude
than to feel it.
He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own;
for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle's
heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name
of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore, that he
should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no apprehension of
it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely;
but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that any caprice could be
strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly
dear. He saw his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and his
fond report of him as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort
of pride in him too. He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place
to make his merits and prospects a kind of common concern.
Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively
curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little returned
that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father had
been often talked of but never achieved.
She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think,
without pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's
ennui, from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no
feeble character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would
have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped
would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and privations.
And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from
Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr.
Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching
season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week
together.
There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being
seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr.
Woodhouse would never believe it.
CHAPTER III
Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very
much to have his friends come and see him; and from various united
causes, from his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his
fortune, his house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his
own little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much
intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late hours,
and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance but such as
would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury, including
Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish adjoining,
the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not unfrequently,
through Emma's persuasion, he had some of the chosen and the best to dine
with him: but evening parties were what he preferred; and, unless he
fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there was scarcely an
evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a card-table for
him.
Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and
by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege of
exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies
and society of Mr. Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles of his lovely
daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.
After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom
were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at
the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and
carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for
either James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it would
have been a grievance.
Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old
lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her
single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the regard
and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward
circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree
of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married.
Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having
much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to make
atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into outward
respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had
passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care
of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as
possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one
named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will and contented
temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested
in every body's happiness, quicksighted to every body's merits; thought
herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an
excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home
that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her
contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a
mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which
exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless
gossip.
These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to
collect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power; though, as
far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs.
Weston. She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very
much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet
prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so spent
was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated.
As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the
present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most
respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most
welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma
knew very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her
beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no longer
dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.
She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith's
conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging—not
inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk—and yet so far from pushing,
shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful
for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the
appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used
to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement.
Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural
graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its
connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed were unworthy of
her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though very good sort of
people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of the name of Martin,
whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm of Mr.
Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell—very creditably, she
believed—she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of them—but they must
be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who
wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect. She
would notice her; she would improve her; she would detach her from her
bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she would form her
opinions and her manners. It would be an interesting, and certainly a very
kind undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure,
and powers.
She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and
listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the
evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which
always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and
watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to the
fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common impulse of
a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing
well and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind delighted with its
own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and help and
recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency
which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of
their guests.
Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could,
with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain
himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say:
"Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg
boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg better
than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but
you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see—one of our small eggs
will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a little bit of tart—a
very little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of
unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard. Mrs. Goddard,
what say you to half a glass of wine? A small half-glass, put into a tumbler
of water? I do not think it could disagree with you."
Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful
disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be guided by
any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself was very amiable;
and her inclination for good company, and power of appreciating what was
elegant and clever, shewed that there was no want of taste, though strength
of understanding must not be expected. Altogether she was quite convinced
of Harriet Smith's being exactly the young friend she wanted—exactly the
something which her home required. Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out
of the question. Two such could never be granted. Two such she did not
want. It was quite a different sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and
independent. Mrs. Weston was the object of a regard which had its basis in
gratitude and esteem. Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be
useful. For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every
thing.
Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the
school in general, formed naturally a great part of the conversation—and
but for her acquaintance with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have
been the whole. But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good deal; she
had spent two very happy months with them, and now loved to talk of the
pleasures of her visit, and describe the many comforts and wonders of the
place. Emma encouraged her talkativeness—amused by such a picture of
another set of beings, and enjoying the youthful simplicity which could
speak with so much exultation of Mrs. Martin's having "two parlours, two
very good parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard's
drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived five-and-
twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of them
Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow
indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond of it, it should be
called her cow; and of their having a very handsome summer-house in their
garden, where some day next year they were all to drink tea:—a very
handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people."
For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate
cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose.
She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter, a
son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared that the
Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned
with approbation for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was
a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she
did suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and
kindness, and that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to
sink herself forever.
"Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are
about."
"And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to
send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose—the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had
ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the
three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup
with her."
"Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe he has read a good
deal—but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural
Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats—but he
reads all them to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to
cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very
entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read
the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never
heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get
them now as soon as ever he can."
"That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having
any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is
the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are
precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A
degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might
hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can
need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my
notice as in every other he is below it."
"To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him;
but he knows you very well indeed—I mean by sight."
"I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know,
indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his
age to be?"
"He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the
23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference—which is very odd."
"Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!"
"Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are
not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune
entirely to make—cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever
money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of the
family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so
forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it
is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing yet."
"To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no
indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks of
taking a boy another year."
"I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does
marry;—I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife—for though his
sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected to, it
does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you to notice.
The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly careful as to
your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a gentleman's
daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by every thing
within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who would take
pleasure in degrading you."
"Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield, and
you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any body
can do."
"You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I would
have you so firmly established in good society, as to be independent even of
Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well
connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd
acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if you should still be in
this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by
your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will
probably be some mere farmer's daughter, without education."
"To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any
body but what had had some education—and been very well brought up.
However, I do not mean to set up my opinion against your's—and I am sure
I shall not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great
regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very sorry
to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But if he marries
a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not visit her, if I can
help it."
Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no
alarming symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer, but
she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no serious
difficulty, on Harriet's side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her own.
They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the
Donwell road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at her,
looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was not
sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few yards
forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye sufficiently
acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very neat, and he
looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no other advantage;
and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen, she thought he must
lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's inclination. Harriet was not
insensible of manner; she had voluntarily noticed her father's gentleness
with admiration as well as wonder. Mr. Martin looked as if he did not
know what manner was.
"Only think of our happening to meet him!—How very odd! It was quite
a chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not think
we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls most
days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet. He was so
busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he goes
again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well, Miss
Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think of him? Do
you think him so very plain?"
"I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been
repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must
yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have
had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be
surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin
again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature—and rather
wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before.
Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not you struck? I am sure you
must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the
uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood
here."
"Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and
way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But Mr.
Knightley is so very fine a man!"
"Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person
grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not be
bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or
awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later age.
Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston's
time of life?"
"How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the
circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended. He
was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing else—which is
just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with books? And
I have no doubt that he will thrive, and be a very rich man in time—and his
being illiterate and coarse need not disturb us."
"I wonder he did not remember the book"—was all Harriet's answer,
and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might
be safely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her next
beginning was,
"In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton's manners are superior to Mr.
Knightley's or Mr. Weston's. They have more gentleness. They might be
more safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness, almost
a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in him, because there is
so much good-humour with it—but that would not do to be copied. Neither
would Mr. Knightley's downright, decided, commanding sort of manner,
though it suits him very well; his figure, and look, and situation in life seem
to allow it; but if any young man were to set about copying him, he would
not be sufferable. On the contrary, I think a young man might be very
safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a model. Mr. Elton is good-
humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle. He seems to me to be grown
particularly gentle of late. I do not know whether he has any design of
ingratiating himself with either of us, Harriet, by additional softness, but it
strikes me that his manners are softer than they used to be. If he means
any thing, it must be to please you. Did not I tell you what he said of you
the other day?"
She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn
from Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and
smiled, and said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.
Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young
farmer out of Harriet's head. She thought it would be an excellent match;
and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her to have
much merit in planning it. She feared it was what every body else must
think of and predict. It was not likely, however, that any body should have
equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had entered her brain during the
very first evening of Harriet's coming to Hartfield. The longer she
considered it, the greater was her sense of its expediency. Mr. Elton's
situation was most suitable, quite the gentleman himself, and without low
connexions; at the same time, not of any family that could fairly object to
the doubtful birth of Harriet. He had a comfortable home for her, and
Emma imagined a very sufficient income; for though the vicarage of
Highbury was not large, he was known to have some independent property;
and she thought very highly of him as a good-humoured, well-meaning,
respectable young man, without any deficiency of useful understanding or
knowledge of the world.
She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a beautiful girl,
which she trusted, with such frequent meetings at Hartfield, was
foundation enough on his side; and on Harriet's there could be little doubt
that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual weight and
efficacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man, a young man whom
any woman not fastidious might like. He was reckoned very handsome; his
person much admired in general, though not by her, there being a want of
elegance of feature which she could not dispense with:—but the girl who
could be gratified by a Robert Martin's riding about the country to get
walnuts for her might very well be conquered by Mr. Elton's admiration.
CHAPTER V
"I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said Mr.
Knightley, "of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I
think it a bad thing."
"I think they will neither of them do the other any good."
"You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her
with a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have
been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently
we feel!—Not think they will do each other any good! This will certainly be
the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr. Knightley."
"Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing
Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle."
"Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years
old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of
books that she meant to read regularly through—and very good lists they
were—very well chosen, and very neatly arranged—sometimes
alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up
when only fourteen—I remember thinking it did her judgment so much
credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out
a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of steady
reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring industry
and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding. Where
Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will
do nothing.—You never could persuade her to read half so much as you
wished.—You know you could not."
"I dare say," replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "that I thought so then;—but
since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting to do any
thing I wished."
"Yes," said he, smiling. "You are better placed here; very fit for a wife,
but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to be an
excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma
such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise; but you
were receiving a very good education from her, on the very material
matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid;
and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly
have named Miss Taylor."
"Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to
such a man as Mr. Weston."
"Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and
that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We
will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of
comfort, or his son may plague him."
"I hope not that.—It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not foretell
vexation from that quarter."
"I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am
more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance.
How well she looked last night!"
"Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you?
Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty."
"Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect
beauty than Emma altogether—face and figure?"
"I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom
seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial old
friend."
"I have not a fault to find with her person," he replied. "I think her all
you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise, that I do not
think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome she is, she
appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs.
Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my
dread of its doing them both harm."
"Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and
I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella. John
loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and
Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite frightened
enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions with me."
"I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind; but
excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself, you know,
as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's mother might
have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can
arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a matter of much discussion
among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any little inconvenience may be
apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma,
accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the
acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure
to herself. It has been so many years my province to give advice, that you
cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of office."
"Not at all," cried he; "I am much obliged to you for it. It is very good
advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found; for
it shall be attended to."
"Be satisfied," said he, "I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my ill-
humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella does not
seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so
great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder
what will become of her!"
"She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just
nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she
cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with
a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a
return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her;
and she goes so seldom from home."
"There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution
at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and while she is so happy at
Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be
creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I do not
recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the
state, I assure you."
Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own
and Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes at
Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to have them
suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon afterwards
made to "What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have rain?"
convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about Hartfield.
CHAPTER VI
Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet's fancy a proper
direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good
purpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr.
Elton's being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners;
and as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his
admiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of creating as
much liking on Harriet's side, as there could be any occasion for. She was
quite convinced of Mr. Elton's being in the fairest way of falling in love, if
not in love already. She had no scruple with regard to him. He talked of
Harriet, and praised her so warmly, that she could not suppose any thing
wanting which a little time would not add. His perception of the striking
improvement of Harriet's manner, since her introduction at Hartfield, was
not one of the least agreeable proofs of his growing attachment.
"You have given Miss Smith all that she required," said he; "you have
made her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful creature when she came to
you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are infinitely
superior to what she received from nature."
"I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted
drawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints. She had all the natural
grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have done very
little."
"If it were admissible to contradict a lady," said the gallant Mr. Elton—
"I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have
taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before."
"Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a disposition
more truly amiable."
"I have no doubt of it." And it was spoken with a sort of sighing
animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not less pleased
another day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers,
to have Harriet's picture.
"Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?" said she: "did you
ever sit for your picture?"
Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say,
with a very interesting naivete,
"Let me entreat you," cried Mr. Elton; "it would indeed be a delight! Let
me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent in favour
of your friend. I know what your drawings are. How could you suppose me
ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your landscapes and
flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable figure-pieces in her
drawing-room, at Randalls?"
"Exactly so—The shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth—I
have not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As you will do it, it
will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession."
"But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She thinks so
little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of answering me?
How completely it meant, 'why should my picture be drawn?'"
"Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. But still I
cannot imagine she would not be persuaded."
Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately
made; and she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the
earnest pressing of both the others. Emma wished to go to work directly,
and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts at
portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that they might
decide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many beginnings were
displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil, crayon, and
water-colours had been all tried in turn. She had always wanted to do every
thing, and had made more progress both in drawing and music than many
might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to. She
played and sang;—and drew in almost every style; but steadiness had
always been wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of
excellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not to
have failed of. She was not much deceived as to her own skill either as an
artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to have others deceived, or
sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often higher than it
deserved.
There was merit in every drawing—in the least finished, perhaps the
most; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had there
been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions
would have been the same. They were both in ecstasies. A likeness pleases
every body; and Miss Woodhouse's performances must be capital.
"No great variety of faces for you," said Emma. "I had only my own
family to study from. There is my father—another of my father—but the
idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only take
him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Mrs. Weston again, and
again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my kindest friend on
every occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her. There is my sister; and
really quite her own little elegant figure!—and the face not unlike. I should
have made a good likeness of her, if she would have sat longer, but she was
in such a hurry to have me draw her four children that she would not be
quiet. Then, here come all my attempts at three of those four children;—
there they are, Henry and John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the
other, and any one of them might do for any one of the rest. She was so
eager to have them drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making
children of three or four years old stand still you know; nor can it be very
easy to take any likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless
they are coarser featured than any of mama's children ever were. Here is
my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on
the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would wish to
see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently. That's very like. I am
rather proud of little George. The corner of the sofa is very good. Then here
is my last,"—unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman in small size, whole-
length—"my last and my best—my brother, Mr. John Knightley.—This did
not want much of being finished, when I put it away in a pet, and vowed I
would never take another likeness. I could not help being provoked; for
after all my pains, and when I had really made a very good likeness of it—
(Mrs. Weston and I were quite agreed in thinking it very like)—only too
handsome—too flattering—but that was a fault on the right side—after all
this, came poor dear Isabella's cold approbation of—"Yes, it was a little
like—but to be sure it did not do him justice." We had had a great deal of
trouble in persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and
altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish it, to
have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every morning
visitor in Brunswick Square;—and, as I said, I did then forswear ever
drawing any body again. But for Harriet's sake, or rather for my own, and
as there are no husbands and wives in the case at present, I will break my
resolution now."
Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and
was repeating, "No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as
you observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives," with so interesting a
consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better
leave them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the
declaration must wait a little longer.
She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be a
whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley's, and was destined,
if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station over the
mantelpiece.
The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not
keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of
youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no doing
any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every touch.
She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze and gaze
again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to it, and
request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her to employ
him in reading.
Mr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in
peace. She must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing
less would certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready at the
smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the progress, and be
charmed.—There was no being displeased with such an encourager, for his
admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it was possible. She
could not respect his eye, but his love and his complaisance were
unexceptionable.
The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough
pleased with the first day's sketch to wish to go on. There was no want of
likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant to throw
in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more height, and
considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of its being in every
way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its destined place with credit
to them both—a standing memorial of the beauty of one, the skill of the
other, and the friendship of both; with as many other agreeable associations
as Mr. Elton's very promising attachment was likely to add.
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought,
entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.
"By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the
party."
The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction,
took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the
picture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased,
but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every
criticism.
"Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she wanted,"—
observed Mrs. Weston to him—not in the least suspecting that she was
addressing a lover.—"The expression of the eye is most correct, but Miss
Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of her face that
she has them not."
"Do you think so?" replied he. "I cannot agree with you. It appears to
me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a likeness
in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know."
"You have made her too tall, Emma," said Mr. Knightley.
Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly
added,
"Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider, she is
sitting down—which naturally presents a different—which in short gives
exactly the idea—and the proportions must be preserved, you know.
Proportions, fore-shortening.—Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of such a
height as Miss Smith's. Exactly so indeed!"
"It is very pretty," said Mr. Woodhouse. "So prettily done! Just as your
drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so well
as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems to be
sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her shoulders—and it
makes one think she must catch cold."
"You, sir, may say any thing," cried Mr. Elton, "but I must confess that
I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out of doors;
and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any other situation
would have been much less in character. The naivete of Miss Smith's
manners—and altogether—Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot keep my eyes
from it. I never saw such a likeness."
The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a
few difficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London; the
order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose taste
could be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions,
must not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse
could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of
December. But no sooner was the distress known to Mr. Elton, than it was
removed. His gallantry was always on the alert. "Might he be trusted with
the commission, what infinite pleasure should he have in executing it! he
could ride to London at any time. It was impossible to say how much he
should be gratified by being employed on such an errand."
"He was too good!—she could not endure the thought!—she would not
give him such a troublesome office for the world,"—brought on the desired
repetition of entreaties and assurances,—and a very few minutes settled the
business.
Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and
give the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its
safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of
not being incommoded enough.
"This man is almost too gallant to be in love," thought Emma. "I should
say so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of being
in love. He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet exactly; it will
be an 'Exactly so,' as he says himself; but he does sigh and languish, and
study for compliments rather more than I could endure as a principal. I
come in for a pretty good share as a second. But it is his gratitude on
Harriet's account."
CHAPTER VII
The very day of Mr. Elton's going to London produced a fresh occasion
for Emma's services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield, as
usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to return
again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked of, and with
an agitated, hurried look, announcing something extraordinary to have
happened which she was longing to tell. Half a minute brought it all out.
She had heard, as soon as she got back to Mrs. Goddard's, that Mr. Martin
had been there an hour before, and finding she was not at home, nor
particularly expected, had left a little parcel for her from one of his sisters,
and gone away; and on opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides
the two songs which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and
this letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal
of marriage. "Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did not
know what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter,
at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her very much—
but she did not know—and so, she was come as fast as she could to ask
Miss Woodhouse what she should do.—" Emma was half-ashamed of her
friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful.
"Upon my word," she cried, "the young man is determined not to lose
any thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can."
"Will you read the letter?" cried Harriet. "Pray do. I'd rather you would."
Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The
style of the letter was much above her expectation. There were not merely
no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a
gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the
sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was short,
but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even
delicacy of feeling. She paused over it, while Harriet stood anxiously
watching for her opinion, with a "Well, well," and was at last forced to add,
"Is it a good letter? or is it too short?"
"Yes, indeed, a very good letter," replied Emma rather slowly—"so good
a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his sisters must
have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I saw talking
with you the other day could express himself so well, if left quite to his own
powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no, certainly, it is too strong
and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman. No doubt he is a sensible
man, and I suppose may have a natural talent for—thinks strongly and
clearly—and when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts naturally find
proper words. It is so with some men. Yes, I understand the sort of mind.
Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not coarse. A better
written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than I had expected."
"What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this
letter?"
"Yes."
"But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course—and
speedily."
"Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me."
"Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will
express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your not
being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be
unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and
concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present
themselves unbidden to your mind, I am persuaded. You need not be
prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment."
"You think I ought to refuse him then," said Harriet, looking down.
"Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in
any doubt as to that? I thought—but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have
been under a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you
feel in doubt as to the purport of your answer. I had imagined you were
consulting me only as to the wording of it."
"No, I do not; that is, I do not mean—What shall I do? What would you
advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do."
"I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do with
it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings."
"Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to—but if you would
just advise me what I had best do—No, no, I do not mean that—As you
say, one's mind ought to be quite made up—One should not be hesitating—
It is a very serious thing.—It will be safer to say 'No,' perhaps.—Do you
think I had better say 'No?'"
"Not for the world," said Emma, smiling graciously, "would I advise you
either way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you
prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most
agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you
hesitate? You blush, Harriet.—Does any body else occur to you at this
moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself;
do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this moment
whom are you thinking of?"
"Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just what
you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to myself,
but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation in
approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have grieved me
to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your
marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I
said nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it would have
been the loss of a friend to me. I could not have visited Mrs. Robert
Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am secure of you for ever."
Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her
forcibly.
"You could not have visited me!" she cried, looking aghast. "No, to be
sure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have
been too dreadful!—What an escape!—Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not
give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing in
the world."
"Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it
must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society. I
must have given you up."
"Dear me!—How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me
never to come to Hartfield any more!"
"Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be
parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or
because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter."
Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a "very true;
and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish manner which
might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that her husband
could write a good letter."
"Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always
happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him. But
how shall I do? What shall I say?"
This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business
was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but
Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by
speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of
Mr. Elton.
"Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You
are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill."
Some time afterwards it was, "I think Mrs. Goddard would be very
much surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash
would—for Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is
only a linen-draper."
Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that
people should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly
cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards the
rejected Mr. Martin.
"Now he has got my letter," said she softly. "I wonder what they are all
doing—whether his sisters know—if he is unhappy, they will be unhappy
too. I hope he will not mind it so very much."
"Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more
cheerfully employed," cried Emma. "At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is
shewing your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more
beautiful is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times,
allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name."
CHAPTER VIII
Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she had been
spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a
bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every
respect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible just
at present. She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or two to
Mrs. Goddard's, but it was then to be settled that she should return to
Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.
While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr.
Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up
his mind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and
was induced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his
own civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr. Knightley, who
had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his short, decided
answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and civil
hesitations of the other.
"Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not
consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma's advice and go
out for a quarter of an hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had better take
my three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony, Mr. Knightley.
We invalids think we are privileged people."
"I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am
a very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides,
you have another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey."
"Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I think
the sooner you go the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open the
garden door for you."
Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being
immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more chat.
He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more voluntary
praise than Emma had ever heard before.
"I cannot rate her beauty as you do," said he; "but she is a pretty little
creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her disposition. Her
character depends upon those she is with; but in good hands she will turn
out a valuable woman."
"I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be
wanting."
"Come," said he, "you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell you
that you have improved her. You have cured her of her school-girl's giggle;
she really does you credit."
"Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been
of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where they
may. You do not often overpower me with it."
"Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she
intended."
"Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would."
Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said
nothing. He presently added, with a smile,
"I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that I
have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of something to
her advantage."
"Very serious! I can think of but one thing—Who is in love with her?
Who makes you their confidant?"
Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton's having dropt a hint.
Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew Mr.
Elton looked up to him.
"I have reason to think," he replied, "that Harriet Smith will soon have
an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable quarter:—Robert
Martin is the man. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have
done his business. He is desperately in love and means to marry her."
"He is very obliging," said Emma; "but is he sure that Harriet means to
marry him?"
"Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do? He came to
the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it. He knows I
have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe, considers
me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether I thought it
would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I thought her too
young: in short, whether I approved his choice altogether; having some
apprehension perhaps of her being considered (especially since your making
so much of her) as in a line of society above him. I was very much pleased
with all that he said. I never hear better sense from any one than Robert
Martin. He always speaks to the purpose; open, straightforward, and very
well judging. He told me every thing; his circumstances and plans, and
what they all proposed doing in the event of his marriage. He is an
excellent young man, both as son and brother. I had no hesitation in
advising him to marry. He proved to me that he could afford it; and that
being the case, I was convinced he could not do better. I praised the fair
lady too, and altogether sent him away very happy. If he had never
esteemed my opinion before, he would have thought highly of me then;
and, I dare say, left the house thinking me the best friend and counsellor
man ever had. This happened the night before last. Now, as we may fairly
suppose, he would not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady,
and as he does not appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that
he should be at Mrs. Goddard's to-day; and she may be detained by a
visitor, without thinking him at all a tiresome wretch."
"Pray, Mr. Knightley," said Emma, who had been smiling to herself
through a great part of this speech, "how do you know that Mr. Martin did
not speak yesterday?"
"Certainly," replied he, surprized, "I do not absolutely know it; but it
may be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you?"
"Come," said she, "I will tell you something, in return for what you have
told me. He did speak yesterday—that is, he wrote, and was refused."
"Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her. What is the
foolish girl about?"
"Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the
meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? madness, if it is so;
but I hope you are mistaken."
"You saw her answer!—you wrote her answer too. Emma, this is your
doing. You persuaded her to refuse him."
"And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not feel
that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man, but I
cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal; and am rather surprized indeed that
he should have ventured to address her. By your account, he does seem to
have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever got over."
"Not Harriet's equal!" exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and
with calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, "No, he is not her
equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in situation. Emma,
your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are Harriet Smith's claims,
either of birth, nature or education, to any connexion higher than Robert
Martin? She is the natural daughter of nobody knows whom, with probably
no settled provision at all, and certainly no respectable relations. She is
known only as parlour-boarder at a common school. She is not a sensible
girl, nor a girl of any information. She has been taught nothing useful, and
is too young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself. At her age
she can have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely ever to
have any that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and
that is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on his account, as
being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him. I felt that, as to
fortune, in all probability he might do much better; and that as to a rational
companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse. But I could not
reason so to a man in love, and was willing to trust to there being no harm
in her, to her having that sort of disposition, which, in good hands, like his,
might be easily led aright and turn out very well. The advantage of the
match I felt to be all on her side; and had not the smallest doubt (nor have
I now) that there would be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck.
Even your satisfaction I made sure of. It crossed my mind immediately that
you would not regret your friend's leaving Highbury, for the sake of her
being settled so well. I remember saying to myself, 'Even Emma, with all
her partiality for Harriet, will think this a good match.'"
"As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may
be called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense. She is not to pay for
the offence of others, by being held below the level of those with whom she
is brought up.—There can scarcely be a doubt that her father is a
gentleman—and a gentleman of fortune.—Her allowance is very liberal;
nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or comfort.—That she
is a gentleman's daughter, is indubitable to me; that she associates with
gentlemen's daughters, no one, I apprehend, will deny.—She is superior to
Mr. Robert Martin."
"Whoever might be her parents," said Mr. Knightley, "whoever may have
had the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of their plan
to introduce her into what you would call good society. After receiving a
very indifferent education she is left in Mrs. Goddard's hands to shift as
she can;—to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard's line, to have Mrs.
Goddard's acquaintance. Her friends evidently thought this good enough for
her; and it was good enough. She desired nothing better herself. Till you
chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set,
nor any ambition beyond it. She was as happy as possible with the Martins
in the summer. She had no sense of superiority then. If she has it now, you
have given it. You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert
Martin would never have proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded of
her not being disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too much real
feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as
to conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it he
had encouragement."
"You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before, are
unjust to Harriet. Harriet's claims to marry well are not so contemptible as
you represent them. She is not a clever girl, but she has better sense than
you are aware of, and does not deserve to have her understanding spoken
of so slightingly. Waiving that point, however, and supposing her to be, as
you describe her, only pretty and good-natured, let me tell you, that in the
degree she possesses them, they are not trivial recommendations to the
world in general, for she is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so
by ninety-nine people out of an hundred; and till it appears that men are
much more philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally
supposed; till they do fall in love with well-informed minds instead of
handsome faces, a girl, with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of
being admired and sought after, of having the power of chusing from among
many, consequently a claim to be nice. Her good-nature, too, is not so very
slight a claim, comprehending, as it does, real, thorough sweetness of
temper and manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a great readiness
to be pleased with other people. I am very much mistaken if your sex in
general would not think such beauty, and such temper, the highest claims a
woman could possess."
"Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is
almost enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than
misapply it as you do."
"To be sure!" cried she playfully. "I know that is the feeling of you all. I
know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man delights in—
what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment. Oh! Harriet
may pick and chuse. Were you, yourself, ever to marry, she is the very
woman for you. And is she, at seventeen, just entering into life, just
beginning to be known, to be wondered at because she does not accept the
first offer she receives? No—pray let her have time to look about her."
"I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy," said Mr. Knightley
presently, "though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now perceive
that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet. You will puff her up with
such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that, in a
little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough for her. Vanity
working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief. Nothing so easy
as for a young lady to raise her expectations too high. Miss Harriet Smith
may not find offers of marriage flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty
girl. Men of sense, whatever you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives.
Men of family would not be very fond of connecting themselves with a girl
of such obscurity—and most prudent men would be afraid of the
inconvenience and disgrace they might be involved in, when the mystery of
her parentage came to be revealed. Let her marry Robert Martin, and she is
safe, respectable, and happy for ever; but if you encourage her to expect to
marry greatly, and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of
consequence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs.
Goddard's all the rest of her life—or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is a girl
who will marry somebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and is glad to
catch at the old writing-master's son."
"We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there
can be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be making each other more
angry. But as to my letting her marry Robert Martin, it is impossible; she
has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must prevent any second
application. She must abide by the evil of having refused him, whatever it
may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will not pretend to say that I might
not influence her a little; but I assure you there was very little for me or for
any body to do. His appearance is so much against him, and his manner so
bad, that if she ever were disposed to favour him, she is not now. I can
imagine, that before she had seen any body superior, she might tolerate
him. He was the brother of her friends, and he took pains to please her;
and altogether, having seen nobody better (that must have been his great
assistant) she might not, while she was at Abbey-Mill, find him
disagreeable. But the case is altered now. She knows now what gentlemen
are; and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance
with Harriet."
"Robert Martin has no great loss—if he can but think so; and I hope it
will not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known to
yourself; but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it is fair
to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have;—and as a friend I
shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it will be all labour in
vain."
"I am very much obliged to you," said Emma, laughing again. "If I had
set my heart on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would have been very kind
to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to myself. I
have done with match-making indeed. I could never hope to equal my own
doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well."
Harriet's cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not
to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been telling
her something, which she repeated immediately with great delight. Mr.
Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard's to attend a sick child, and Miss Nash
had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was coming back
yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and found to his great
surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road to London, and not
meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the whist-club night,
which he had been never known to miss before; and Mr. Perry had
remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it was in him,
their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much to persuade him to
put off his journey only one day; but it would not do; Mr. Elton had been
determined to go on, and had said in a very particular way indeed, that he
was going on business which he would not put off for any inducement in
the world; and something about a very enviable commission, and being the
bearer of something exceedingly precious. Mr. Perry could not quite
understand him, but he was very sure there must be a lady in the case, and
he told him so; and Mr. Elton only looked very conscious and smiling, and
rode off in great spirits. Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a
great deal more about Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at
her, "that she did not pretend to understand what his business might be,
but she only knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she
should think the luckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr.
Elton had not his equal for beauty or agreeableness."
CHAPTER IX
Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with
herself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual before he
came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave looks shewed
that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent. On the
contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified and
endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days.
The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr.
Elton's return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common sitting-
room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half sentences of
admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet's feelings, they were visibly
forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as her youth
and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly satisfied of Mr.
Martin's being no otherwise remembered, than as he furnished a contrast
with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter.
Her views of improving her little friend's mind, by a great deal of useful
reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few first
chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much easier to
chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work
at Harriet's fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge her comprehension or
exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary pursuit which engaged
Harriet at present, the only mental provision she was making for the
evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every
sort that she could meet with, into a thin quarto of hot-pressed paper, made
up by her friend, and ornamented with ciphers and trophies.
In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are not
uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written out at
least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it from
her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse's help, to get a great many more. Emma
assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as Harriet wrote a very
pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first order, in form as
well as quantity.
His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did
not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had desired
Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much, something, he
thought, might come from that quarter.
made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some
pages ago already.
"Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?" said she; "that
is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be easier to you."
"Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his
life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse"—he
stopt a moment—"or Miss Smith could inspire him."
"I do not offer it for Miss Smith's collection," said he. "Being my
friend's, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye, but
perhaps you may not dislike looking at it."
The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could
understand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it
easier to meet her eye than her friend's. He was gone the next moment:—
after another moment's pause,
"Take it," said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards Harriet—
"it is for you. Take your own."
But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never
loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.
To Miss—
CHARADE.
She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through
again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then passing it
to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself, while Harriet was
puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope and dulness, "Very well,
Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse charades. Courtship—a very
good hint. I give you credit for it. This is feeling your way. This is saying
very plainly—'Pray, Miss Smith, give me leave to pay my addresses to you.
Approve my charade and my intentions in the same glance.'
Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye—of all epithets, the
justest that could be given.
Humph—Harriet's ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much
in love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the
benefit of this; I think this would convince you. For once in your life you
would be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade indeed!
and very much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon now.
She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations,
which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the eagerness of
Harriet's wondering questions.
Can it be Neptune?
That is court.
Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read the
concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not speak.
But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel. Emma
spoke for her.
"That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,—me, of all people,
who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very
handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to,
quite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body says
he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it; that he has
more invitations than there are days in the week. And so excellent in the
Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has ever preached from
since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back to the first time I
saw him! How little did I think!—The two Abbots and I ran into the front
room and peeped through the blind when we heard he was going by, and
Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look through herself;
however, she called me back presently, and let me look too, which was very
good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he looked! He was arm-in-arm
with Mr. Cole."
"Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You
understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other.
This charade!—If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made
any thing like it."
"I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things in
general cannot be too short."
Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory
comparisons were rising in her mind.
Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's
prose.
"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful
charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good."
"Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should not
write it into your book."
Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so
as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a declaration of
love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree of publicity.
"I shall never let that book go out of my own hands," said she.
"Very well," replied Emma; "a most natural feeling; and the longer it
lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you will
not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him so much
pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any thing that pays
woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of gallantry towards us
all!—You must let me read it to him."
"My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.—
You will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too
quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning
which may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little tribute
of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not have left
the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me than towards
you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has encouragement
enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over this charade."
"Oh! no—I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please."
Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the
recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of "Well, my dears, how does your
book go on?—Have you got any thing fresh?"
"Aye, that's very just, indeed, that's very properly said. Very true.
'Woman, lovely woman.' It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can
easily guess what fairy brought it.—Nobody could have written so prettily,
but you, Emma."
"Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother was
so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can remember
nothing;—not even that particular riddle which you have heard me
mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are several.
And that is all that I can recollect of it—but it is very clever all the way
through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it."
"Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the
Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick's, you know."
The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being
christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here
next week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her—and what
room there will be for the children?"
"Oh! yes—she will have her own room, of course; the room she always
has;—and there is the nursery for the children,—just as usual, you know.
Why should there be any change?"
"I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I
first heard she was going to be married."
"We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is
here."
Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley's claims on his
brother, or any body's claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat musing a
little while, and then said,
"Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be
to come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet."
"I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not."
"Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the
eldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second, is
named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that the eldest
was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I thought very
pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They are all remarkably
clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will come and stand by
my chair, and say, 'Grandpapa, can you give me a bit of string?' and once
Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives were only made for
grandpapas. I think their father is too rough with them very often."
"He appears rough to you," said Emma, "because you are so very gentle
yourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not
think him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if they
misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an
affectionate father—certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate father.
The children are all fond of him."
"And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a
very frightful way!"
"But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such
enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of their
taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other."
"That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot
understand the pleasures of the other."
Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in
preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this inimitable
charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could receive him
with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the
consciousness of having made a push—of having thrown a die; and she
imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible reason,
however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made up in
the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest degree
necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give way; but
otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his dining with
him—had made such a point of it, that he had promised him conditionally
to come.
Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend
on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged—she re-
declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the
paper from the table, she returned it—
"Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank
you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have ventured to write
it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend will not take it amiss I hope. Of
course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines."
Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked
rather doubtingly—rather confused; said something about "honour,"—
glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the
table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing
off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,
"You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade
must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's
approbation while he writes with such gallantry."
After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not
think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a
sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh.
She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime
of pleasure to Harriet's share.
CHAPTER X
Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to
prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the
morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived
a little way out of Highbury.
Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane
leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the
place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton.
A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter
of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house,
almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation;
but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such
as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without
a slackened pace and observing eyes.—Emma's remark was—
"There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days."—
Harriet's was—
"Oh, what a sweet house!—How very beautiful!—There are the yellow
curtains that Miss Nash admires so much."
"I do not often walk this way now," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but
then there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately
acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of
Highbury."
Harriet, she found, had never in her life been within side the Vicarage,
and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and
probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's
seeing ready wit in her.
"I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any
tolerable pretence for going in;—no servant that I want to inquire about of
his housekeeper—no message from my father."
"I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be
tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the question:
and I do not wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I
cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to
repent it."
"Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty
only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single
woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old
maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good
fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any
body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and
common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income
has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can
barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very
inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply,
however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit
me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though
single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I
really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very
likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a
great charm."
"Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when
you grow old?"
"If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great
many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in
want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual
occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now;
or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up
music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for
the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of
which is really the great evil to be avoided in not marrying, I shall be very
well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about.
There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of
sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope
and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a
parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder.
My nephews and nieces!—I shall often have a niece with me."
"Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen
her a hundred times—but are you acquainted?"
They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were
superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor
were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel
and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could
allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic
expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had
done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always
gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present
instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and
after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she
quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to
Harriet, as they walked away,
"These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make
every thing else appear!—I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these
poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may
all vanish from my mind?"
"Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing
else."
"And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said
Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended
the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them
into the lane again. "I do not think it will," stopping to look once more at all
the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within.
They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was
passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma
time only to say farther,
"Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good
thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has
produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly
important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them,
the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves."
Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman joined
them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first
subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit he would
now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done
and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them.
"To fall in with each other on such an errand as this," thought Emma;
"to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of love on
each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration. It
must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else."
Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon
afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side
of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had not been
there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of dependence and
imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both be
soon after her. This would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence
of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and
stooping down in complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have
the goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did
as they were desired; and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done
with her boot, she had the comfort of farther delay in her power, being
overtaken by a child from the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with
her pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child,
and talk to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or
would have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without
design; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without
any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however,
involuntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and she
was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a conversation
which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with animation, Harriet
listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child
on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more, when
they both looked around, and she was obliged to join them.
Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail; and
Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only
giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's party at his friend
Cole's, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese, the north
Wiltshire, the butter, the cellery, the beet-root, and all the dessert.
"This would soon have led to something better, of course," was her
consoling reflection; "any thing interests between those who love; and any
thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I could but
have kept longer away!"
They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage
pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the house,
made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and fall
behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off short, and
dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them
to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to rights so as to be
able to walk home in tolerable comfort.
Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could
exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and
endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they were
taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards; behind it
was another with which it immediately communicated; the door between
them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive
her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave the
door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close
it. It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but by engaging the
housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make it practicable for
him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining room. For ten minutes she
could hear nothing but herself. It could be protracted no longer. She was
then obliged to be finished, and make her appearance.
The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most
favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having
schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to the point.
He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that he
had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them; other little
gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious.
Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her
ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been the
occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them
forward to the great event.
CHAPTER XI
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual
absent from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual
interest. Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been
divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of this
autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was therefore
many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their Surry
connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be induced to
get so far as London, even for poor Isabella's sake; and who consequently
was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in forestalling this too
short visit.
He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little of
the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some of the
party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless; the sixteen
miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their
five children, and a competent number of nursery-maids, all reaching
Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival, the many to be
talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed and disposed of,
produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could not have borne
under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even for this; but the
ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father were so respected by Mrs.
John Knightley, that in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate
enjoyment of her little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty
and attendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing,
which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the children
were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in themselves or
in any restless attendance on them.
Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet
manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt up
in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly attached to
her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer love might
have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault in any of them. She
was not a woman of strong understanding or any quickness; and with this
resemblance of her father, she inherited also much of his constitution; was
delicate in her own health, over-careful of that of her children, had many
fears and many nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town
as her father could be of Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a general
benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard for every old
acquaintance.
Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man;
rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private character;
but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing;
and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an ill-tempered
man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach; but his
temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping
wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be
increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all
the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could
sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing.
He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong
in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to Isabella,
which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more
had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister, but they were only those
of a calmly kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness;
but hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her
regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell
into, the want of respectful forbearance towards her father. There he had
not always the patience that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse's
peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational
remonstrance or sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen;
for Mr. John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and
generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for
Emma's charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension
frequently to be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning,
however, of every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this
being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied
cordiality. They had not been long seated and composed when Mr.
Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his
daughter's attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there
last.
"Oh yes, sir," cried she with ready sympathy, "how you must miss her!
And dear Emma, too!—What a dreadful loss to you both!—I have been so
grieved for you.—I could not imagine how you could possibly do without
her.—It is a sad change indeed.—But I hope she is pretty well, sir."
"Pretty well, my dear—I hope—pretty well.—I do not know but that the
place agrees with her tolerably."
Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any
doubts of the air of Randalls.
"Oh! no—none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life—
never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret."
"And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?" asked Isabella in the plaintive
tone which just suited her father.
"Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they
married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have
we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at
Randalls or here—and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here.
They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as
herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will be giving
Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be aware that Miss Taylor
must be missed, but every body ought also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs.
Weston do really prevent our missing her by any means to the extent we
ourselves anticipated—which is the exact truth."
"Just as it should be," said Mr. John Knightley, "and just as I hoped it
was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not be
doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I
have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change
being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have
Emma's account, I hope you will be satisfied."
"It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.— You
quite forget poor Mr. Weston."
"I think, indeed," said John Knightley pleasantly, "that Mr. Weston has
some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the
poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of
the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has
been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr.
Westons aside as much as she can."
"Me, my love," cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.—
"Are you talking about me?—I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a
greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for the
misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss Taylor
but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting Mr.
Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does not
deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed.
Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I
shall never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that very windy day last
Easter—and ever since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth
in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night, on purpose to assure me that
there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could
not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.—If any body can
deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor."
"Where is the young man?" said John Knightley. "Has he been here on
this occasion—or has he not?"
"He has not been here yet," replied Emma. "There was a strong
expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing;
and I have not heard him mentioned lately."
"But you should tell them of the letter, my dear," said her father. "He
wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very proper,
handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very well done of
him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell. He is
but young, and his uncle, perhaps—"
"How very pleasing and proper of him!" cried the good-hearted Mrs.
John Knightley. "I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man.
But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is
something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and
natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with
him. To give up one's child! I really never could think well of any body who
proposed such a thing to any body else."
"Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy," observed Mr.
John Knightley coolly. "But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt
what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an
easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes things
as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other,
depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his
comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist
with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection, or any
thing that home affords."
Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and
had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She would
keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and
valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to
himself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on the
common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was important.—It
had a high claim to forbearance.
CHAPTER XII
She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was
time to make up. Making-up indeed would not do. She certainly had not
been in the wrong, and he would never own that he had. Concession must
be out of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had
ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration of
friendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the children
with her—the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months old, who was
now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced about
in her aunt's arms. It did assist; for though he began with grave looks and
short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in the usual way,
and to take the child out of her arms with all the unceremoniousness of
perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends again; and the conviction giving
her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, she could not help
saying, as he was admiring the baby,
"What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and
nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different;
but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree."
"If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and
women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings
with them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might always
think alike."
"Yes," said he, smiling—"and reason good. I was sixteen years old when
you were born."
"A material difference then," she replied—"and no doubt you were much
my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the lapse
of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal nearer?"
"I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by
not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma,
let us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma, that
she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances,
and that if she were not wrong before, she is now."
"A man cannot be more so," was his short, full answer.
The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally
of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative,
and who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally
some point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious anecdote
to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm at Donwell, he
had to tell what every field was to bear next year, and to give all such local
information as could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose home it
had equally been the longest part of his life, and whose attachments were
strong. The plan of a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and
the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered
into with as much equality of interest by John, as his cooler manners
rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him any thing to
inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of eagerness.
"My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand, and
interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her five
children—"How long it is, how terribly long since you were here! And how
tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear—
and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.—You and I will have a
nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little
gruel."
Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both
the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;—and
two basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of
gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every
body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection,
"Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any
good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though
perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any
body. I am sure it almost killed me once."
"Come, come," cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I must
beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;—I who
have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella,
I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never
forgets you."
"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has
not time to take care of himself—he tells me he has not time to take care of
himself—which is very sad—but he is always wanted all round the country.
I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is
not so clever a man any where."
"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow?
I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will
be so pleased to see my little ones."
"I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask
him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes,
you had better let him look at little Bella's throat."
"Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any
uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her,
or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's,
which we have been applying at times ever since August."
"It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to
her—and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have
spoken to—
"You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma, "I
have not heard one inquiry after them."
"Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a
bad cold about a month ago."
"How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been
this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more
general or heavy—except when it has been quite an influenza."
"That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you
mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as
he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it
altogether a sickly season."
"No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it very sickly except—
"Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a
sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful
thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!—and the air so bad!"
"No, indeed—we are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very
superior to most others!—You must not confound us with London in
general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very
different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be
unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;—there is hardly any
other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but we are so
remarkably airy!—Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square
decidedly the most favourable as to air."
"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it—but after
you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures;
you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of
you looking well at present."
"I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those
little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely free
from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were rather pale
before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired
than usual, from their journey and the happiness of coming. I hope you will
think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told
me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good
case. I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,"
turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
"What is the matter, sir?—Did you speak to me?" cried Mr. John
Knightley, hearing his own name.
"I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking
well—but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have wished,
however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left
home."
"I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,"
cried Emma, "about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff
from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will not
the old prejudice be too strong?"
And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced
to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worse
to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax,
though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that moment very
happy to assist in praising.
"That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!" said Mrs. John Knightley.— "It is so
long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment accidentally
in town! What happiness it must be to her good old grandmother and
excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always regret excessively on
dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at Highbury; but now their
daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able
to part with her at all. She would be such a delightful companion for
Emma."
"Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty
kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a better
companion than Harriet."
"I am most happy to hear it—but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so
very accomplished and superior!—and exactly Emma's age."
This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar
moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not
close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied a
great deal to be said—much praise and many comments— undoubting
decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe
Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with tolerable;—
but, unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter had to instance,
the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in her own cook at
South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never had been able to
understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not
too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been
able to get any thing tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening.
"Ah!" said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her
with tender concern.—The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, "Ah! there
is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It does not
bear talking of." And for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it,
and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to the relish of his
own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes, however, he began
with,
"I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn,
instead of coming here."
"But why should you be sorry, sir?—I assure you, it did the children a
great deal of good."
"And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been
to South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprized to hear
you had fixed upon South End."
"I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite a
mistake, sir.—We all had our health perfectly well there, never found the
least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is entirely a
mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may be depended
on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and his own
brother and family have been there repeatedly."
Emma's attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had
reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her brother-in-law's
breaking out.
"Mr. Perry," said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, "would do as
well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it any
business of his, to wonder at what I do?—at my taking my family to one
part of the coast or another?—I may be allowed, I hope, the use of my
judgment as well as Mr. Perry.— I want his directions no more than his
drugs." He paused—and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only
sarcastic dryness, "If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and five
children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense
or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to prefer
Cromer to South End as he could himself."
"True, true," cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition— "very
true. That's a consideration indeed.—But John, as to what I was telling you
of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the right
that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive any
difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of
inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly the
present line of the path. . . . The only way of proving it, however, will be to
turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow morning I hope,
and then we will look them over, and you shall give me your opinion."
CHAPTER XIII
There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John
Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning among
her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what she had
done every evening with her father and sister. She had nothing to wish
otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a delightful
visit;—perfect, in being much too short.
In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their
mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too,
there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no
denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;—even Mr. Woodhouse was
persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of the
party.
Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the
only persons invited to meet them;—the hours were to be early, as well as
the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being consulted
in every thing.
The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that
Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent
by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with a
cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs. Goddard,
Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called on her
the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to Randalls.
She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard was full of
care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill
and low to resist the authority which excluded her from this delightful
engagement, though she could not speak of her loss without many tears.
Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs.
Goddard's unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how
much Mr. Elton's would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her
at last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most
comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had not
advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard's door, when she was met by Mr.
Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly
together in conversation about the invalid—of whom he, on the rumour of
considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he might carry some
report of her to Hartfield—they were overtaken by Mr. John Knightley
returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest boys, whose
healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country run, and seemed
to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were
hastening home for. They joined company and proceeded together. Emma
was just describing the nature of her friend's complaint;—"a throat very
much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse, &c.
and she was sorry to find from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was liable to
very bad sore-throats, and had often alarmed her with them." Mr. Elton
looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed,
Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this
excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and
care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she could
not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than not,
she added soon afterwards—as if quite another subject,
"It is so cold, so very cold—and looks and feels so very much like snow,
that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I should really try
not to go out to-day—and dissuade my father from venturing; but as he has
made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not like
to interfere, as I know it would be so great a disappointment to Mr. and
Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should
certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when
you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring,
I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and
take care of yourself to-night."
Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make;
which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind care
of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's, he had not
really the least inclination to give up the visit;—but Emma, too eager and
busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or
see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering
acknowledgment of its being "very cold, certainly very cold," and walked
on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the
power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening.
"You do quite right," said she;—"we will make your apologies to Mr.
and Mrs. Weston."
But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly
offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only
objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt
satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his
broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment; never
had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when he next
looked at her.
"Well," said she to herself, "this is most strange!—After I had got him
off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill behind!—
Most strange indeed!—But there is, I believe, in many men, especially
single men, such an inclination—such a passion for dining out—a dinner
engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures, their employments,
their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing gives way to it—and this
must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most valuable, amiable, pleasing young
man undoubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet; but still, he cannot
refuse an invitation, he must dine out wherever he is asked. What a strange
thing love is! he can see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for
her."
Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him
the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his manner
of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while assuring her that
he should call at Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair friend, the last thing
before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again, when he hoped
to be able to give a better report; and he sighed and smiled himself off in a
way that left the balance of approbation much in his favour.
"I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr.
Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With men
he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please, every
feature works."
"Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect," replied Emma; "but where there
is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great
deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will have
the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect good-temper
and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value."
"Yes," said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, "he seems
to have a great deal of good-will towards you."
"I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it is so or
not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your manners to
him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better look about
you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do."
"I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and I
are very good friends, and nothing more;" and she walked on, amusing
herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a partial
knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high
pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very well pleased
with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in want of
counsel. He said no more.
Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that
in spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of shrinking
from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his eldest daughter in
his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the weather than
either of the others; too full of the wonder of his own going, and the
pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it was cold, and too well
wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was severe; and by the time the
second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow were finding their way
down, and the sky had the appearance of being so overcharged as to want
only a milder air to produce a very white world in a very short time.
Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour.
The preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of
his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least, which Mr.
John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated nothing in the
visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the whole of their drive to
the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his discontent.
"A man," said he, "must have a very good opinion of himself when he
asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as this,
for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most agreeable
fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity—Actually
snowing at this moment!— The folly of not allowing people to be
comfortable at home—and the folly of people's not staying comfortably at
home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such an evening as this,
by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we should deem it;—and
here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting
forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature,
which tells man, in every thing given to his view or his feelings, to stay at
home himself, and keep all under shelter that he can;—here are we setting
forward to spend five dull hours in another man's house, with nothing to
say or to hear that was not said and heard yesterday, and may not be said
and heard again to-morrow. Going in dismal weather, to return probably in
worse;—four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey
five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than
they might have had at home."
Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no
doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the "Very true, my love,"
which must have been usually administered by his travelling companion;
but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any answer at all.
She could not be complying, she dreaded being quarrelsome; her heroism
reached only to silence. She allowed him to talk, and arranged the glasses,
and wrapped herself up, without opening her lips.
They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr.
Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma thought
with pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and
cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she began
to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from what had
reached her. She had sent while dressing, and the answer had been, "Much
the same—not better."
"My report from Mrs. Goddard's," said she presently, "was not so
pleasant as I had hoped—'Not better' was my answer."
His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of
sentiment as he answered.
"Oh! no—I am grieved to find—I was on the point of telling you that
when I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing before
I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better, by no means
better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned— I had flattered
myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew had been
given her in the morning."
Emma smiled and answered—"My visit was of use to the nervous part
of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it is
a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you probably
heard."
"He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow
morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is impossible
not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!"
This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really
estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay
when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things, and
in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.
"What an excellent device," said he, "the use of a sheepskin for
carriages. How very comfortable they make it;—impossible to feel cold with
such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a
gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from
the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather
becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon—but in
this carriage we know nothing of the matter.—Ha! snows a little I see."
"Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of it."
At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much
astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed
quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.
"We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in the
greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;—Mrs. Weston
indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so
hospitable, and so fond of society;—it will be a small party, but where
small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr.
Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably;
and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by
two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me, (turning with a soft
air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr.
Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not
quite enter into our feelings."
"I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir—I never dine with
any body."
"Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had
been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be
paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment."
CHAPTER XIV
This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not
afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very
sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma,
and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities, or
of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the
utmost.
The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through
before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to
give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella's
coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end
of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the
others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed
by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear
Emma.
Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry
to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her. The
difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet,
from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually
obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing
her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such
that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of "Can it really be as my
brother imagined? can it be possible for this man to be beginning to
transfer his affections from Harriet to me?—Absurd and insufferable!"— Yet
he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so
interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last
would begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little
knowledge as seemed terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort
with her to preserve her good manners. For her own sake she could not be
rude; and for Harriet's, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she
was even positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was
going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr.
Elton's nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard
enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his
son; she heard the words "my son," and "Frank," and "my son," repeated
several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much
suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before
she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any
reviving question from her would have been awkward.
"We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to
see two more here,—your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son—and
then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me
telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank. I had a
letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a fortnight."
Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented
to his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their
party quite complete.
"He has been wanting to come to us," continued Mr. Weston, "ever
since September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command
his own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who
(between ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many
sacrifices. But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second
week in January."
"Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off.
She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not
know the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is—(but this is quite
between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other room.
There are secrets in all families, you know)—The case is, that a party of
friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and that Frank's
coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not put off, he cannot
stir. But I know they will, because it is a family that a certain lady, of some
consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular dislike to: and though it is
thought necessary to invite them once in two or three years, they always
are put off when it comes to the point. I have not the smallest doubt of the
issue. I am as confident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January,
as I am of being here myself: but your good friend there (nodding towards
the upper end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so
little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as
I have been long in the practice of doing."
"I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case," replied
Emma; "but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he will
come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe."
"Yes—I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at
the place in my life.—She is an odd woman!—But I never allow myself to
speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very fond of
him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any body, except
herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her way—allowing for little
whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to be as she likes). And it is
no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he should excite such an
affection; for, though I would not say it to any body else, she has no more
heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil of a temper."
Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston,
very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy—yet
observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.— Mrs.
Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be secure of
undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of: "for I cannot
depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very
much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been
telling you exactly how the matter stands?"
"Yes—it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs.
Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world."
Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then
have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of
unreserve which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really
believed, would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills
from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own
imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at
present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon
followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner, was a
confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was
any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he was
always comfortable.
"And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means
certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it
takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better."
"Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays.
Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some
excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any
reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills'
to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his
regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and
I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine."
"He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days,
he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it
in his power to do as much as that. A young woman, if she fall into bad
hands, may be teazed, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be
with; but one cannot comprehend a young man's being under such
restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it."
"One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before
one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston. "One ought to use
the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual
of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by
general rules: she is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to
her."
Emma listened, and then coolly said, "I shall not be satisfied, unless he
comes."
"He may have a great deal of influence on some points," continued Mrs.
Weston, "and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is
beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of his
coming away from them to visit us."
CHAPTER XV
Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his
tea he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three
companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of the
hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and
convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at last the
drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very good
spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting
together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and, with scarcely an
invitation, seated himself between them.
Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by
the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late
improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his
making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most friendly
smiles.
Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an
address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of
first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and
offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She
could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must
restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her
sister, and giving her all her attention.
She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly
did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the
room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the
information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing
fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr.
Woodhouse:
Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else
had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and
had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and
Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-
law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.
"I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in
such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every
body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare
say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can hardly
make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in
the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare
say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight."
His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being
blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full in her
imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for adventurous
people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager to have it
settled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls, while she and
her husband set forward instantly through all the possible accumulations of
drifted snow that might impede them.
"You had better order the carriage directly, my love," said she; "I dare
say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if we do come to
any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at all afraid. I should
not mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes, you know, the
moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that gives me cold."
Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs.
Weston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could
not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away; and they
were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had left the room
immediately after his brother's first report of the snow, came back again,
and told them that he had been out of doors to examine, and could answer
for there not being the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever
they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He had gone beyond the
sweep—some way along the Highbury road—the snow was nowhere above
half an inch deep—in many places hardly enough to whiten the ground; a
very few flakes were falling at present, but the clouds were parting, and
there was every appearance of its being soon over. He had seen the
coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there being nothing to
apprehend.
To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were
scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father's account, who was
immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous constitution
allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be appeased so as to
admit of any comfort for him while he continued at Randalls. He was
satisfied of there being no present danger in returning home, but no
assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay; and while the others
were variously urging and recommending, Mr. Knightley and Emma settled
it in a few brief sentences: thus—
"Yes, do."
And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes
more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his
own house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and
happiness when this visit of hardship were over.
The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such
occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr.
Weston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of
alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the discovery
of a much darker night than he had been prepared for. "He was afraid they
should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella would not like it.
And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind. He did not know
what they had best do. They must keep as much together as they could;"
and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very slow and wait for
the other carriage.
Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he did
not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally; so that
Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second carriage by
Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them, and that they
were to have a tete-a-tete drive. It would not have been the awkwardness of
a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure, previous to the suspicions
of this very day; she could have talked to him of Harriet, and the three-
quarters of a mile would have seemed but one. But now, she would rather it
had not happened. She believed he had been drinking too much of Mr.
Weston's good wine, and felt sure that he would want to be talking
nonsense.
To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was
immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of the
weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they
passed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she found her
subject cut up—her hand seized—her attention demanded, and Mr. Elton
actually making violent love to her: availing himself of the precious
opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well known,
hoping—fearing—adoring—ready to die if she refused him; but flattering
himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and unexampled
passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short, very much
resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It really was so.
Without scruple—without apology—without much apparent diffidence, Mr.
Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself her lover. She tried to
stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say it all. Angry as she was, the
thought of the moment made her resolve to restrain herself when she did
speak. She felt that half this folly must be drunkenness, and therefore could
hope that it might belong only to the passing hour. Accordingly, with a
mixture of the serious and the playful, which she hoped would best suit his
half and half state, she replied,
"I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to me! you forget
yourself—you take me for my friend—any message to Miss Smith I shall be
happy to deliver; but no more of this to me, if you please."
"Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account
for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak either
to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself enough to say no
more, and I will endeavour to forget it."
But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at
all to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and having
warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and slightly
touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,—but acknowledging
his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,—he resumed the
subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a favourable answer.
"It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself
too clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can
express. After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last month, to
Miss Smith—such attentions as I have been in the daily habit of
observing—to be addressing me in this manner—this is an unsteadiness of
character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible! Believe me, sir, I am
far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such professions."
"Good Heaven!" cried Mr. Elton, "what can be the meaning of this?—
Miss Smith!—I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my
existence—never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never cared
whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has fancied
otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very sorry—extremely
sorry—But, Miss Smith, indeed!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse! who can think of
Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my honour, there is
no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of you. I protest against
having paid the smallest attention to any one else. Every thing that I have
said or done, for many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking
my adoration of yourself. You cannot really, seriously, doubt it. No!—(in an
accent meant to be insinuating)—I am sure you have seen and understood
me."
"No, sir," cried Emma, "it confesses no such thing. So far from having
long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect to
your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you should
have been giving way to any feelings— Nothing could be farther from my
wishes—your attachment to my friend Harriet—your pursuit of her,
(pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been very
earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were not your
attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you judged ill in
making your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you have never sought
to recommend yourself particularly to Miss Smith?—that you have never
thought seriously of her?"
"Never, madam," cried he, affronted in his turn: "never, I assure you. I
think seriously of Miss Smith!—Miss Smith is a very good sort of girl; and I
should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her extremely well:
and, no doubt, there are men who might not object to—Every body has
their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a loss. I
need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as to be addressing myself
to Miss Smith!— No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been for yourself
only; and the encouragement I received—"
He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite
supplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually deep
mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer, for the
fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If there had not
been so much anger, there would have been desperate awkwardness; but
their straightforward emotions left no room for the little zigzags of
embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage
Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at the door of
his house; and he was out before another syllable passed.—Emma then felt
it indispensable to wish him a good night. The compliment was just
returned, coldly and proudly; and, under indescribable irritation of spirits,
she was then conveyed to Hartfield.
There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who
had been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage Lane—
turning a corner which he could never bear to think of—and in strange
hands—a mere common coachman—no James; and there it seemed as if her
return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr. John
Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and attention;
and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her father, as to seem—if
not quite ready to join him in a basin of gruel—perfectly sensible of its
being exceedingly wholesome; and the day was concluding in peace and
comfort to all their little party, except herself.—But her mind had never
been in such perturbation; and it needed a very strong effort to appear
attentive and cheerful till the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief
of quiet reflection.
CHAPTER XVI
The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to
think and be miserable.—It was a wretched business indeed!—Such an
overthrow of every thing she had been wishing for!—Such a development of
every thing most unwelcome!—Such a blow for Harriet!—that was the
worst of all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or
other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she would
gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken—more in error—more
disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the effects of her
blunders have been confined to herself.
"If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne
any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me—but poor
Harriet!"
How she could have been so deceived!—He protested that he had never
thought seriously of Harriet—never! She looked back as well as she could;
but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and
made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must have been
unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled.
Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his
addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his
proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment, and
was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the
arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was
perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared
for. There had been no real affection either in his language or manners.
Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could hardly
devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less allied with
real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He only wanted to
aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the
heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as he
had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with twenty, or
with ten.
Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her
inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of such
equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that in
fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know that
the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at Hartfield, the
younger branch of a very ancient family—and that the Eltons were nobody.
The landed property of Hartfield certainly was inconsiderable, being but a
sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate, to which all the rest of Highbury
belonged; but their fortune, from other sources, was such as to make them
scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey itself, in every other kind of
consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a high place in the
consideration of the neighbourhood which Mr. Elton had first entered not
two years ago, to make his way as he could, without any alliances but in
trade, or any thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and his
civility.— But he had fancied her in love with him; that evidently must
have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the seeming
incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in
common honesty to stop and admit that her own behaviour to him had
been so complaisant and obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as
(supposing her real motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary
observation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided
favourite. If she had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to
wonder that he, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers.
The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was
wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It was
adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought to be
serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and
ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.
"Here have I," said she, "actually talked poor Harriet into being very
much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for
me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not
assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to
think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept
young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done of me; but there
I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance. I was
introducing her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of
pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more. But
now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have been but half a
friend to her; and if she were not to feel this disappointment so very much,
I am sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable
for her;—William Coxe—Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe—a pert
young lawyer."
She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a
more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might
be, and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet,
and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of
future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the
acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding
eclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some time
longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the conviction
of her having blundered most dreadfully.
Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had
gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to
depend on getting tolerably out of it.
It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love
with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to disappoint
him—that Harriet's nature should not be of that superior sort in which the
feelings are most acute and retentive—and that there could be no necessity
for any body's knowing what had passed except the three principals, and
especially for her father's being given a moment's uneasiness about it.
These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of
snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that
might justify their all three being quite asunder at present.
The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she
could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his
daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting or
receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered with
snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and thaw,
which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every morning
beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to freeze, she was
for many days a most honourable prisoner. No intercourse with Harriet
possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any more than on
Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton's absenting
himself.
It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and
though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some
society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied
with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to hear
him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from
them,—
"Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?"
These days of confinement would have been, but for her private
perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited her
brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his
companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour
at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the rest of his stay
at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging, and speaking pleasantly
of every body. But with all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present
comfort of delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of
explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever
perfectly at ease.
CHAPTER XVII
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The
weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr.
Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind
with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set off, and return
to his lamentations over the destiny of poor Isabella;—which poor Isabella,
passing her life with those she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their
faults, and always innocently busy, might have been a model of right
feminine happiness.
The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from
Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with
Mr. Elton's best compliments, "that he was proposing to leave Highbury the
following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the
pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few weeks,
and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from various
circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal leave of Mr.
Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever retain a grateful
sense—and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be happy to attend
to them."
She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason
to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she
should have as much time as possible for getting the better of her other
complaint before the gentleman's return. She went to Mrs. Goddard's
accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary penance of
communication; and a severe one it was.— She had to destroy all the hopes
which she had been so industriously feeding—to appear in the ungracious
character of the one preferred—and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken
and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all her observations, all her
convictions, all her prophecies for the last six weeks.
The confession completely renewed her first shame—and the sight of
Harriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with
herself again.
Her tears fell abundantly—but her grief was so truly artless, that no
dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes—and she
listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and
understanding—really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior
creature of the two—and that to resemble her would be more for her own
welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do.
It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and
ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being
humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life. Her
second duty now, inferior only to her father's claims, was to promote
Harriet's comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection in some better
method than by match-making. She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her
the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by
books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts.
Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and
she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in
general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton
in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet's age, and with
the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be made towards a
state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton's return, as to allow them all to
meet again in the common routine of acquaintance, without any danger of
betraying sentiments or increasing them.
Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence
of any body equal to him in person or goodness—and did, in truth, prove
herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it appeared
to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an inclination of that sort
unrequited, that she could not comprehend its continuing very long in equal
force.
If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and
indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not
imagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the
recollection of him.
Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for
each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of
effecting any material change of society. They must encounter each other,
and make the best of it.
CHAPTER XVIII
Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near,
Mrs. Weston's fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For the
present, he could not be spared, to his "very great mortification and regret;
but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no
distant period."
Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed—much more disappointed,
in fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man
had been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever
expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any
proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure, and begins
to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and sorry; but
then he began to perceive that Frank's coming two or three months later
would be a much better plan; better time of year; better weather; and that
he would be able, without any doubt, to stay considerably longer with them
than if he had come sooner.
Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr.
Frank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls. The
acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to be
quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she should
appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express as much
interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs.
Weston's disappointment, as might naturally belong to their friendship.
She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite
as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather more,) at
the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then proceeded to
say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of such an addition to
their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of looking at somebody new;
the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the sight of him would have made;
and ending with reflections on the Churchills again, found herself directly
involved in a disagreement with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great
amusement, perceived that she was taking the other side of the question
from her real opinion, and making use of Mrs. Weston's arguments against
herself.
"The Churchills are very likely in fault," said Mr. Knightley, coolly; "but
I dare say he might come if he would."
"I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come;
but his uncle and aunt will not spare him."
"I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a
point of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof."
"How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you
suppose him such an unnatural creature?"
"That's easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your
own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the
difficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers to
manage."
"And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever
there is any temptation of pleasure."
"There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses,
and that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and
resolution. It is Frank Churchill's duty to pay this attention to his father. He
knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he wished to do it,
it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at once, simply and
resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill— 'Every sacrifice of mere pleasure you will
always find me ready to make to your convenience; but I must go and see
my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a
mark of respect to him on the present occasion. I shall, therefore, set off to-
morrow.'— If he would say so to her at once, in the tone of decision
becoming a man, there would be no opposition made to his going."
"No," said Emma, laughing; "but perhaps there might be some made to
his coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent,
to use!—Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But
you have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to
your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to the
uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for him!—
Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as loud as
he could!—How can you imagine such conduct practicable?"
"Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it.
He would feel himself in the right; and the declaration—made, of course, as
a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner—would do him more
good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people he
depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do.
Respect would be added to affection. They would feel that they could trust
him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his father, would do rightly
by them; for they know, as well as he does, as well as all the world must
know, that he ought to pay this visit to his father; and while meanly
exerting their power to delay it, are in their hearts not thinking the better of
him for submitting to their whims. Respect for right conduct is felt by every
body. If he would act in this sort of manner, on principle, consistently,
regularly, their little minds would bend to his."
"I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but
where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have a
knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as great ones. I
can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported
and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill's situation, you would be able
to say and do just what you have been recommending for him; and it might
have a very good effect. The Churchills might not have a word to say in
return; but then, you would have no habits of early obedience and long
observance to break through. To him who has, it might not be so easy to
burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set all their claims on his
gratitude and regard at nought. He may have as strong a sense of what
would be right, as you can have, without being so equal, under particular
circumstances, to act up to it."
"Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to
understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly
opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his
life."
"Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first
occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the will of
others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of following his
duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for the fears of the
child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he ought to have roused
himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority. He ought
to have opposed the first attempt on their side to make him slight his
father. Had he begun as he ought, there would have been no difficulty
now."
"We shall never agree about him," cried Emma; "but that is nothing
extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man: I
feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly, though in
his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild
disposition than would suit your notions of man's perfection. I dare say he
has; and though it may cut him off from some advantages, it will secure
him many others."
"Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of
leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely expert
in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter,
full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit
upon the very best method in the world of preserving peace at home and
preventing his father's having any right to complain. His letters disgust me."
"Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else."
"I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy a
woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother's place,
but without a mother's affection to blind her. It is on her account that
attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission.
Had she been a person of consequence herself, he would have come I dare
say; and it would not have signified whether he did or no. Can you think
your friend behindhand in these sort of considerations? Do you suppose she
does not often say all this to herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man
can be amiable only in French, not in English. He may be very 'aimable,'
have very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English
delicacy towards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about
him."
"And mine," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "is, that if he turn out any
thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What! at
three-and-twenty to be the king of his company—the great man—the
practised politician, who is to read every body's character, and make every
body's talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to be
dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like fools
compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not
endure such a puppy when it came to the point."
"I will say no more about him," cried Emma, "you turn every thing to
evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no chance
of agreeing till he is really here."
"But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love
for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour."
"He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another," said
Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately
talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should be
angry.
CHAPTER I
Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in
Emma's opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She
could not think that Harriet's solace or her own sins required more; and she
was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they returned;—but
it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded, and after speaking
some time of what the poor must suffer in winter, and receiving no other
answer than a very plaintive— "Mr. Elton is so good to the poor!" she found
something else must be done.
They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates.
She determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers. There was
always sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates loved to
be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few who
presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in that
respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of their scanty
comforts.
She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own
heart, as to her deficiency—but none were equal to counteract the
persuasion of its being very disagreeable,—a waste of time—tiresome
women—and all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-
rate and third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and
therefore she seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden
resolution of not passing their door without going in—observing, as she
proposed it to Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they were just
now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.
The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton.
There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton
since his going away. Emma knew what was coming; they must have the
letter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much he
was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he went,
and how full the Master of the Ceremonies' ball had been; and she went
through it very well, with all the interest and all the commendation that
could be requisite, and always putting forward to prevent Harriet's being
obliged to say a word.
This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant,
having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by
any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses
and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not been prepared
to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually hurried off by
Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last abruptly to the Coles, to
usher in a letter from her niece.
"Thank you. You are so kind!" replied the happily deceived aunt, while
eagerly hunting for the letter.—"Oh! here it is. I was sure it could not be far
off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so
it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost
sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs. Cole, and since she
went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for it is such a pleasure to
her—a letter from Jane—that she can never hear it often enough; so I knew
it could not be far off, and here it is, only just under my huswife—and
since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she says;—but, first of all, I
really must, in justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter—
only two pages you see—hardly two—and in general she fills the whole
paper and crosses half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so
well. She often says, when the letter is first opened, 'Well, Hetty, now I
think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work'— don't you,
ma'am?—And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out
herself, if she had nobody to do it for her—every word of it—I am sure she
would pore over it till she had made out every word. And, indeed, though
my mother's eyes are not so good as they were, she can see amazingly well
still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is such a blessing! My
mother's are really very good indeed. Jane often says, when she is here, 'I
am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong eyes to see as you
do—and so much fine work as you have done too!—I only wish my eyes
may last me as well.'"
All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath; and
Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss Fairfax's
handwriting.
"You are extremely kind," replied Miss Bates, highly gratified; "you who
are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure there is
nobody's praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse's.
My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know. Ma'am," addressing
her, "do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say about Jane's
handwriting?"
And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment
repeated twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She was
pondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very
rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax's letter, and had almost
resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss
Bates turned to her again and seized her attention.
"Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is so
surprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am sure she will
be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see her. Yes,
Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel Campbell will be
wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So very good of them to
send her the whole way! But they always do, you know. Oh yes, Friday or
Saturday next. That is what she writes about. That is the reason of her
writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in the common course, we should not
have heard from her before next Tuesday or Wednesday."
"You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to
come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship
between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be
excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell."
"Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been
rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a distance
from us, for months together—not able to come if any thing was to happen.
But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want her (Mr. and
Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell;
quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing than their joint
invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently; Mr. Dixon does not seem
in the least backward in any attention. He is a most charming young man.
Ever since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out
in that party on the water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of
something or other among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at
once, and actually was all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest
presence of mind, caught hold of her habit— (I can never think of it
without trembling!)—But ever since we had the history of that day, I have
been so fond of Mr. Dixon!"
"But, in spite of all her friends' urgency, and her own wish of seeing
Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates?"
"Yes—entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel and
Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should
recommend; and indeed they particularly wish her to try her native air, as
she has not been quite so well as usual lately."
"I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs. Dixon
must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no
remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be
compared with Miss Fairfax."
"Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things—but certainly not.
There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was
absolutely plain—but extremely elegant and amiable."
"Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of
November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well since. A
long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned it
before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! so considerate!—But
however, she is so far from well, that her kind friends the Campbells think
she had better come home, and try an air that always agrees with her; and
they have no doubt that three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure
her—and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here, than
go to Ireland, if she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do."
And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained
the street—happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against
her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax's
letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.
CHAPTER II
Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest
daughter.
The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the
very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making
independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel
Campbell's power; for though his income, by pay and appointments, was
handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter's; but, by
giving her an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of respectable
subsistence hereafter.
Such was Jane Fairfax's history. She had fallen into good hands, known
nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent
education. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people,
her heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline and
culture; and Colonel Campbell's residence being in London, every lighter
talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance of first-rate masters.
Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all that friendship
could do; and at eighteen or nineteen she was, as far as such an early age
can be qualified for the care of children, fully competent to the office of
instruction herself; but she was too much beloved to be parted with.
Neither father nor mother could promote, and the daughter could not
endure it. The evil day was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still
too young; and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in
all the rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of
home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering
suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this might
soon be over.
This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be yet
attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path of duty;
though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had fixed on
for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty should be the
period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had resolved at one-
and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from all the pleasures of
life, of rational intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, to penance and
mortification for ever.
The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a
resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no exertions
would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and for their own
comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this would be
selfishness:—what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they began
to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the temptation
of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and
leisure as must now be relinquished. Still, however, affection was glad to
catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment.
She had never been quite well since the time of their daughter's marriage;
and till she should have completely recovered her usual strength, they must
forbid her engaging in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a
weakened frame and varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable
circumstances, to require something more than human perfection of body
and mind to be discharged with tolerable comfort.
Emma was sorry;—to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like
through three long months!—to be always doing more than she wished, and
less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a difficult
question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was because she saw
in her the really accomplished young woman, which she wanted to be
thought herself; and though the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the
time, there were moments of self-examination in which her conscience
could not quite acquit her. But "she could never get acquainted with her:
she did not know how it was, but there was such coldness and reserve—
such apparent indifference whether she pleased or not—and then, her aunt
was such an eternal talker!—and she was made such a fuss with by every
body!—and it had been always imagined that they were to be so intimate—
because their ages were the same, every body had supposed they must be
so fond of each other." These were her reasons—she had no better.
Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings,
as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury
afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she
could wish to scheme about for her.
If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved
on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed
bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value
for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all
general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished. It
did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its
artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably was something
more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been
very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss
Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.
The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill
had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a
little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure
as to what he truly was. "Was he handsome?"—"She believed he was
reckoned a very fine young man." "Was he agreeable?"— "He was generally
thought so." "Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of
information?"—"At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance,
it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be
safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of
Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing." Emma
could not forgive her.
CHAPTER III
"I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling; "but I hope I am not
often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."
"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "that I am sure you are not.
There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are
too attentive. The muffin last night—if it had been handed round once, I
think it would have been enough."
"No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often
deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think
you understand me, therefore."
An arch look expressed—"I understand you well enough;" but she said
only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved."
"I always told you she was—a little; but you will soon overcome all that
part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation
in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured."
"My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her,
"you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening."
"I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his
quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved
back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates
was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks
rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a
different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort
of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed.
She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had
Emma."
Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the
present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question—
"She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from. I
am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart."
"My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish
it. There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and
the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like."
"That's right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but
that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it is not
over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and
eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or
parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome."
"Emma," said Mr. Knightley presently, "I have a piece of news for you.
You like news—and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will
interest you."
"News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?—why do you smile
so?—where did you hear it?—at Randalls?"
"No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls," when the door
was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room.
Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give
quickest. Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not
another syllable of communication could rest with him.
"Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss
Woodhouse— I come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of
pork! You are too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going
to be married."
Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so
completely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a little
blush, at the sound.
"But where could you hear it?" cried Miss Bates. "Where could you
possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I received
Mrs. Cole's note—no, it cannot be more than five—or at least ten—for I had
got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out—I was only gone
down to speak to Patty again about the pork—Jane was standing in the
passage—were not you, Jane?—for my mother was so afraid that we had
not any salting-pan large enough. So I said I would go down and see, and
Jane said, 'Shall I go down instead? for I think you have a little cold, and
Patty has been washing the kitchen.'—'Oh! my dear,' said I—well, and just
then came the note. A Miss Hawkins— that's all I know. A Miss Hawkins of
Bath. But, Mr. Knightley, how could you possibly have heard it? for the
very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me.
A Miss Hawkins—"
"I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. He had just
read Elton's letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly."
"Well! that is quite—I suppose there never was a piece of news more
generally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful. My mother
desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand thanks, and
says you really quite oppress her."
"Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to
us. If ever there were people who, without having great wealth themselves,
had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us. We may well say
that 'our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.' Well, Mr. Knightley, and so you
actually saw the letter; well—"
"He is very young to settle," was Mr. Woodhouse's observation. "He had
better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me very well off as he was. We were
always glad to see him at Hartfield."
"A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!" said Miss Bates,
joyfully; "my mother is so pleased!—she says she cannot bear to have the
poor old Vicarage without a mistress. This is great news, indeed. Jane, you
have never seen Mr. Elton!—no wonder that you have such a curiosity to
see him."
"No—I have never seen Mr. Elton," she replied, starting on this appeal;
"is he—is he a tall man?"
"Who shall answer that question?" cried Emma. "My father would say
'yes,' Mr. Knightley 'no;' and Miss Bates and I that he is just the happy
medium. When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax, you will
understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in Highbury, both
in person and mind."
"Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very best young
man—But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he was
precisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins,—I dare say, an excellent
young woman. His extreme attention to my mother—wanting her to sit in
the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my mother is a little
deaf, you know—it is not much, but she does not hear quite quick. Jane
says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf. He fancied bathing might be
good for it—the warm bath—but she says it did him no lasting benefit.
Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel. And Mr. Dixon seems a
very charming young man, quite worthy of him. It is such a happiness when
good people get together—and they always do. Now, here will be Mr. Elton
and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles, such very good people; and the
Perrys—I suppose there never was a happier or a better couple than Mr.
and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir," turning to Mr. Woodhouse, "I think there are
few places with such society as Highbury. I always say, we are quite
blessed in our neighbours.—My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother
loves better than another, it is pork—a roast loin of pork—"
"As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been
acquainted with her," said Emma, "nothing I suppose can be known. One
feels that it cannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been gone only four
weeks."
Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings,
Emma said,
"You are silent, Miss Fairfax—but I hope you mean to take an interest
in this news. You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on
these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss
Campbell's account—we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr.
Elton and Miss Hawkins."
"When I have seen Mr. Elton," replied Jane, "I dare say I shall be
interested—but I believe it requires that with me. And as it is some months
since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn off."
"Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss
Woodhouse," said Miss Bates, "four weeks yesterday.—A Miss Hawkins!—
Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts;
not that I ever—Mrs. Cole once whispered to me—but I immediately said,
'No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man—but'—In short, I do not think I
am particularly quick at those sort of discoveries. I do not pretend to it.
What is before me, I see. At the same time, nobody could wonder if Mr.
Elton should have aspired—Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-
humouredly. She knows I would not offend for the world. How does Miss
Smith do? She seems quite recovered now. Have you heard from Mrs. John
Knightley lately? Oh! those dear little children. Jane, do you know I always
fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley. I mean in person—tall, and with
that sort of look—and not very talkative."
"Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.
One takes up a notion, and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is not,
strictly speaking, handsome?"
"My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be
plain, and that you yourself—"
Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him
while he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry—
and to marry strangers too—and the other half she could give to her own
view of the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece
of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but she
was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it—and all that she could hope was,
by giving the first information herself, to save her from hearing it abruptly
from others. It was now about the time that she was likely to call. If she
were to meet Miss Bates in her way!—and upon its beginning to rain,
Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at
Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her
without preparation.
The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five
minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which
hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the "Oh! Miss
Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!" which instantly burst forth,
had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given,
Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening;
and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. "She had
set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago—she had been afraid it would
rain—she had been afraid it would pour down every moment—but she
thought she might get to Hartfield first—she had hurried on as fast as
possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman
was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see
how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there,
soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do;
so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's."—
Ford's was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's
shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.—"And so, there
she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes,
perhaps—when, all of a sudden, who should come in—to be sure it was so
very odd!—but they always dealt at Ford's—who should come in, but
Elizabeth Martin and her brother!— Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I
thought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near
the door—Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the
umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took no
notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and I kept
sitting near the door!—Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I must have
been as white as my gown. I could not go away you know, because of the
rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but there.—Oh! dear,
Miss Woodhouse—well, at last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for
instead of going on with her buyings, they began whispering to one another.
I am sure they were talking of me; and I could not help thinking that he
was persuading her to speak to me—(do you think he was, Miss
Woodhouse?)—for presently she came forward—came quite up to me, and
asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands, if I would. She did
not do any of it in the same way that she used; I could see she was altered;
but, however, she seemed to try to be very friendly, and we shook hands,
and stood talking some time; but I know no more what I said—I was in
such a tremble!—I remember she said she was sorry we never met now;
which I thought almost too kind! Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely
miserable! By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and I was determined
that nothing should stop me from getting away—and then—only think!— I
found he was coming up towards me too—slowly you know, and as if he
did not quite know what to do; and so he came and spoke, and I
answered—and I stood for a minute, feeling dreadfully, you know, one can't
tell how; and then I took courage, and said it did not rain, and I must go;
and so off I set; and I had not got three yards from the door, when he came
after me, only to say, if I was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much
better go round by Mr. Cole's stables, for I should find the near way quite
floated by this rain. Oh! dear, I thought it would have been the death of
me! So I said, I was very much obliged to him: you know I could not do
less; and then he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables—
I believe I did—but I hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it. Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than have it happen: and
yet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so
pleasantly and so kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do talk
to me and make me comfortable again."
Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in
her power. She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly
comfortable herself. The young man's conduct, and his sister's, seemed the
result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet described
it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection and genuine
delicacy in their behaviour. But she had believed them to be well-meaning,
worthy people before; and what difference did this make in the evils of the
connexion? It was folly to be disturbed by it. Of course, he must be sorry to
lose her—they must be all sorry. Ambition, as well as love, had probably
been mortified. They might all have hoped to rise by Harriet's acquaintance:
and besides, what was the value of Harriet's description?—So easily
pleased—so little discerning;—what signified her praise?
"It might be distressing, for the moment," said she; "but you seem to
have behaved extremely well; and it is over—and may never—can never, as
a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need not think about it."
Harriet said, "very true," and she "would not think about it;" but still
she talked of it—still she could talk of nothing else; and Emma, at last, in
order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to hurry on the news,
which she had meant to give with so much tender caution; hardly knowing
herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed or only amused, at such a
state of mind in poor Harriet—such a conclusion of Mr. Elton's importance
with her!
Mr. Elton's rights, however, gradually revived. Though she did not feel
the first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or an hour
before, its interest soon increased; and before their first conversation was
over, she had talked herself into all the sensations of curiosity, wonder and
regret, pain and pleasure, as to this fortunate Miss Hawkins, which could
conduce to place the Martins under proper subordination in her fancy.
Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting. It
had been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining any
influence to alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get at her,
without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either the courage or
the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of the brother, the
sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard's; and a twelvemonth might pass
without their being thrown together again, with any necessity, or even any
power of speech.
CHAPTER IV
A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned
in Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have
every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly
accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived to
triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits, there
was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say
whose music she principally played.
Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and
mortified—disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what
appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right lady,
but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He had gone
away deeply offended—he came back engaged to another—and to another
as superior, of course, to the first, as under such circumstances what is
gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager
and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.
The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves
to please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and when
he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which a certain
glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when he next entered
Highbury he would bring his bride.
During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just
enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the
impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and
pretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much
to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was
so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that, except
in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to
her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing
him again. She wished him very well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare
twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction.
Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had
talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out of it.
The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's mind was
not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he certainly
would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would have
been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure her. Harriet was
one of those, who, having once begun, would be always in love. And now,
poor girl! she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton.
She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw
him only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure just to
meet with him, or just to miss him, just to hear his voice, or see his
shoulder, just to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all
the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover,
perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was
always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so
interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore,
every guess—all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the
arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and furniture,
was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength
by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated
by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins's happiness, and continual
observation of, how much he seemed attached!—his air as he walked by the
house—the very sitting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in
love!
CHAPTER V
Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her friend
called for her at Mrs. Goddard's, her evil stars had led her to the very spot
where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to The Rev. Philip Elton, White-
Hart, Bath, was to be seen under the operation of being lifted into the
butcher's cart, which was to convey it to where the coaches past; and every
thing in this world, excepting that trunk and the direction, was
consequently a blank.
She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be
put down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between
espalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which had
given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to revive a
little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed her to be
looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which determined her not to
allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of an hour. She went on
herself, to give that portion of time to an old servant who was married, and
settled in Donwell.
The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again;
and Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and
unattended by any alarming young man. She came solitarily down the
gravel walk—a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with her
seemingly with ceremonious civility.
Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was feeling
too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to understand the
sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating. She had seen only
Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her doubtingly, if not
coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had been talked
almost all the time—till just at last, when Mrs. Martin's saying, all of a
sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was grown, had brought on a more
interesting subject, and a warmer manner. In that very room she had been
measured last September, with her two friends. There were the pencilled
marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the window. He had done it.
They all seemed to remember the day, the hour, the party, the occasion—to
feel the same consciousness, the same regrets—to be ready to return to the
same good understanding; and they were just growing again like
themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready as the best of them
to be cordial and happy,) when the carriage reappeared, and all was over.
The style of the visit, and the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive.
Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully
passed six weeks not six months ago!—Emma could not but picture it all,
and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It
was a bad business. She would have given a great deal, or endured a great
deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so
deserving, that a little higher should have been enough: but as it was, how
could she have done otherwise?—Impossible!—She could not repent. They
must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process—so
much to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little
consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure it.
Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The refreshment of
Randalls was absolutely necessary.
It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that
neither "master nor mistress was at home;" they had both been out some
time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield.
"This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away. "And now we shall
just miss them; too provoking!—I do not know when I have been so
disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs,
or to reason them away; probably a little of both—such being the
commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt;
she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to
speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still
greater pleasure was conveyed in sound—for Mr. Weston immediately
accosted her with,
"How d'ye do?—how d'ye do?—We have been sitting with your father—
glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow—I had a letter this
morning—we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty—he is at
Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If
he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was always
glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right
weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him completely;
every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish."
"I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion.
Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from
his wife.
"We had better move on, Mr. Weston," said she, "we are detaining the
girls."
But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and
Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.
The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful
pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that she was
to think of her at four.
She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her
father—Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes,
and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's being a day
before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil
welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of
surprize, introduction, and pleasure.
The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually
before her—he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had
been said in his praise; he was a very good looking young man; height, air,
address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal of
the spirit and liveliness of his father's; he looked quick and sensible. She
felt immediately that she should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of
manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came
intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must
be.
He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the
eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel earlier,
later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.
"I told you yesterday," cried Mr. Weston with exultation, "I told you all
that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I used to
do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on
faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one's
friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal more than any little
exertion it needs."
"It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it," said the young man,
"though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far; but in
coming home I felt I might do any thing."
The word home made his father look on him with fresh complacency.
Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the
conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased
with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly
allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury,
Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always
felt the sort of interest in the country which none but one's own country
gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been
able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through
Emma's brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and
pleasantly handled. His manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did
really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment.
"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for," said he; "but I confess
that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably
well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a
pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston."
"You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings,"
said Emma; "were you to guess her to be eighteen, I should listen with
pleasure; but she would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words.
Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young
woman."
"I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it, (with a
gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I
might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms."
She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His
quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy
expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was
confident that he was often listening.
Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the
entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a
most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving
matrimony than from foreseeing it.— Though always objecting to every
marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the
apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two
persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were
proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now,
without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance
forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural
kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank Churchill's
accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils of sleeping two nights
on the road, and express very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had
certainly escaped catching cold—which, however, he could not allow him to
feel quite assured of himself till after another night.
"As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity of
paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore may as
well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour
of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near Highbury; a family
of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in finding the
house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper name—I should rather
say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any family of that name?"
"To be sure we do," cried his father; "Mrs. Bates—we passed her
house—I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted
with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl
she is. Call upon her, by all means."
"There is no necessity for my calling this morning," said the young man;
"another day would do as well; but there was that degree of acquaintance at
Weymouth which—"
"I have heard her speak of the acquaintance," said Emma; "she is a very
elegant young woman."
"If you were never particularly struck by her manners before," said she,
"I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her and hear
her—no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an aunt who
never holds her tongue."
"You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?" said Mr.
Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; "then give me
leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young lady. She
is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very worthy people; I
have known them all my life. They will be extremely glad to see you, I am
sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to shew you the way."
"My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me."
"But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown, quite
on the other side of the street, and there are a great many houses; you
might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk, unless you keep
on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you had best cross
the street."
Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could, and
his father gave his hearty support by calling out, "My good friend, this is
quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees it, and as
to Mrs. Bates's, he may get there from the Crown in a hop, step, and jump."
They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and
a graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma
remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and
could now engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with
full confidence in their comfort.
CHAPTER VI
The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with
Mrs. Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially.
He had been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till
her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their walk,
immediately fixed on Highbury.—"He did not doubt there being very
pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always chuse
the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury, would be
his constant attraction."— Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood for Hartfield;
and she trusted to its bearing the same construction with him. They walked
thither directly.
Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for
half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew
nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her, therefore, to
perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in arm. She was
wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in company with Mrs.
Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him was to depend. If
he were deficient there, nothing should make amends for it. But on seeing
them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It was not merely in fine
words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his duty; nothing could be
more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her—nothing could more
agreeably denote his wish of considering her as a friend and securing her
affection. And there was time enough for Emma to form a reasonable
judgment, as their visit included all the rest of the morning. They were all
three walking about together for an hour or two—first round the
shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards in Highbury. He was delighted
with every thing; admired Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse's ear;
and when their going farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be
made acquainted with the whole village, and found matter of
commendation and interest much oftener than Emma could have supposed.
Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now
shewn, it could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily
absenting himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a parade
of insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him
justice.
At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and
being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma
recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had paid
it.
"Yes, oh! yes"—he replied; "I was just going to mention it. A very
successful visit:—I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much obliged to
you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken me quite by
surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed
into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have been all
that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and I had told my father I
should certainly be at home before him—but there was no getting away, no
pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me
nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with
them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me
the possibility of escape before."
"Ill, very ill—that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill. But
the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never
look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always
to give the appearance of ill health.— A most deplorable want of
complexion."
Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss
Fairfax's complexion. "It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not
allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and
delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her
face." He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard
many people say the same—but yet he must confess, that to him nothing
could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features
were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they
were good, the effect was—fortunately he need not attempt to describe
what the effect was.
He shook his head and laughed.—"I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and
her complexion."
"Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same
society?"
They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers"
and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he
said—"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me,
you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my amor
patriae. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame
would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life."
"I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her
party at Weymouth."
"You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling;
"remember that I am here.—Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say
when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther
off."
"I certainly do forget to think of her," said Emma, "as having ever been
any thing but my friend and my dearest friend."
When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again,
"Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank
Churchill.
"Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to
Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She
plays charmingly."
"You think so, do you?—I wanted the opinion of some one who could
really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable
taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.— I am excessively fond of
music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body's
performance.—I have been used to hear her's admired; and I remember one
proof of her being thought to play well:—a man, a very musical man, and in
love with another woman—engaged to her—on the point of marriage—
would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the
lady in question could sit down instead—never seemed to like to hear one if
he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent,
was some proof."
"Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it
a very strong proof."
"Poor comfort!" said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger
preferred than one's very particular friend—with a stranger it might not
recur again—but the misery of having a very particular friend always at
hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!— Poor Mrs. Dixon!
Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland."
"You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she
really did not seem to feel it."
"So much the better—or so much the worse:—I do not know which. But
be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her—quickness of friendship, or dulness
of feeling—there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss
Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction."
"I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children
and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be
intimate,—that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited
her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little,
perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust
towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt
and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve—I never could
attach myself to any one so completely reserved."
"It is a most repulsive quality, indeed," said he. "Oftentimes very
convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve, but no
attraction. One cannot love a reserved person."
"Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction may
be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable
companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any
body's reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is
quite out of the question. I have no reason to think ill of her—not the
least—except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and
manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to
suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal."
He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and
thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him, that
she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was not
exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some of his
notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better than she had
expected. His ideas seemed more moderate—his feelings warmer. She was
particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr. Elton's house, which,
as well as the church, he would go and look at, and would not join them in
finding much fault with. No, he could not believe it a bad house; not such a
house as a man was to be pitied for having. If it were to be shared with the
woman he loved, he could not think any man to be pitied for having that
house. There must be ample room in it for every real comfort. The man
must be a blockhead who wanted more.
Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking
about. Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how
many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could
be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But
Emma, in her own mind, determined that he did know what he was talking
about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in life,
and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of the inroads
on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper's room, or a bad
butler's pantry, but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe could not
make him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he would willingly
give up much of wealth to be allowed an early establishment.
CHAPTER VII
Emma's very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the
following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have
his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he
had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner, but with no
more important view that appeared than having his hair cut. There was
certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an
errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she could
not approve. It did not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation
in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed
herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change,
restlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad;
heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston, indifferent
as to how his conduct might appear in general; he became liable to all these
charges. His father only called him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good
story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was clear enough, by her
passing it over as quickly as possible, and making no other comment than
that "all young people would have their little whims."
With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit hitherto
had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston was very ready to
say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made himself—how much
she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He appeared to have a very
open temper—certainly a very cheerful and lively one; she could observe
nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal decidedly right; he spoke of his
uncle with warm regard, was fond of talking of him—said he would be the
best man in the world if he were left to himself; and though there was no
being attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude,
and seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect. This was all very
promising; and, but for such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut,
there was nothing to denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour
which her imagination had given him; the honour, if not of being really in
love with her, of being at least very near it, and saved only by her own
indifference—(for still her resolution held of never marrying)—the honour,
in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance.
Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must
have some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her
extremely—thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so
much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him
harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, "all young people would have their little
whims."
There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so
leniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes of
Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were made
for the little excesses of such a handsome young man—one who smiled so
often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be
softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles—Mr. Knightley. The
circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment, he was silent; but
Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself, over a
newspaper he held in his hand, "Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took
him for." She had half a mind to resent; but an instant's observation
convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings, and
not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass.
Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs.
Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune.
Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma want their
advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice they
gave.
This was the occurrence:—The Coles had been settled some years in
Highbury, and were very good sort of people—friendly, liberal, and
unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade, and
only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the country, they had
lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little company, and
that little unexpensively; but the last year or two had brought them a
considerable increase of means—the house in town had yielded greater
profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them. With their wealth, their
views increased; their want of a larger house, their inclination for more
company. They added to their house, to their number of servants, to their
expenses of every sort; and by this time were, in fortune and style of living,
second only to the family at Hartfield. Their love of society, and their new
dining-room, prepared every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a
few parties, chiefly among the single men, had already taken place. The
regular and best families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume
to invite— neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should
tempt her to go, if they did; and she regretted that her father's known
habits would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The
Coles were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it
was not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would
visit them. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from
herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.
But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many
weeks before it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her
very differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their
invitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs. Weston's
accounting for it with "I suppose they will not take the liberty with you;
they know you do not dine out," was not quite sufficient. She felt that she
should like to have had the power of refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of
the party to be assembled there, consisting precisely of those whose society
was dearest to her, occurred again and again, she did not know that she
might not have been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in the
evening, and the Bateses. They had been speaking of it as they walked
about Highbury the day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly
lamented her absence. Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a
question of his. The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her
spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission
to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort.
It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at
Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her first
remark, on reading it, was that "of course it must be declined," she so very
soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their advice
for her going was most prompt and successful.
She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely
without inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so
properly—there was so much real attention in the manner of it—so much
consideration for her father. "They would have solicited the honour earlier,
but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from London, which
they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of air, and
therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour of his
company." Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being briefly
settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting his
comfort—how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be
depended on for bearing him company— Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked
into an acquiescence of his daughter's going out to dinner on a day now
near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As for his
going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be too
late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned.
"Well, sir," cried Mr. Weston, "as I took Miss Taylor away, it is
incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs.
Goddard in a moment, if you wish it."
But the idea of any thing to be done in a moment, was increasing, not
lessening, Mr. Woodhouse's agitation. The ladies knew better how to allay
it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately arranged.
With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for
talking as usual. "He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great
regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her.
James could take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer written
to Mrs. Cole."
"You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will say
that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must decline
their obliging invitation; beginning with my compliments, of course. But you
will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is to be done. We must
remember to let James know that the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday. I
shall have no fears for you with him. We have never been there above once
since the new approach was made; but still I have no doubt that James will
take you very safely. And when you get there, you must tell him at what
time you would have him come for you again; and you had better name an
early hour. You will not like staying late. You will get very tired when tea is
over."
"But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?"
"Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great many
people talking at once. You will not like the noise."
"But, my dear sir," cried Mr. Weston, "if Emma comes away early, it will
be breaking up the party."
"And no great harm if it does," said Mr. Woodhouse. "The sooner every
party breaks up, the better."
"But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma's going
away directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured
people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel that any
body's hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse's doing
it would be more thought of than any other person's in the room. You
would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly,
good sort of people as ever lived, and who have been your neighbours these
ten years."
CHAPTER VIII
Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father's dinner
waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious for
his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection
which could be concealed.
He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very
good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had done.
He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any confusion of face;
no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits. He was quite
as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing him, Emma thus
moralised to herself:—
"I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do
cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way.
Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.—It depends
upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is not a
trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this differently.
He would either have gloried in the achievement, or been ashamed of it.
There would have been either the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions
of a mind too weak to defend its own vanities.—No, I am perfectly sure
that he is not trifling or silly."
With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for
a longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by
inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing how
soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air; and of
fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were now seeing
them together for the first time.
She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr.
Cole's; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr.
Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than his
propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.
Her father's comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs.
Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left the
house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after dinner;
and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her dress, to make
the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping them to large slices
of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever unwilling self-denial his care
of their constitution might have obliged them to practise during the meal.—
She had provided a plentiful dinner for them; she wished she could know
that they had been allowed to eat it.
She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole's door; and was pleased to
see that it was Mr. Knightley's; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses, having
little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and independence,
was too apt, in Emma's opinion, to get about as he could, and not use his
carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey. She had an
opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from her heart,
for he stopped to hand her out.
Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as
with Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could
not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for. When the
Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration were
for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached her with a
cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object, and at dinner
she found him seated by her—and, as she firmly believed, not without some
dexterity on his side.
The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper
unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of
naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family,
the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the
evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at
dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be
general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could
fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour. The
first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend, was the name
of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was
expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found it well worth
listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing
supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been calling on Miss Bates, and
as soon as she entered the room had been struck by the sight of a
pianoforte—a very elegant looking instrument—not a grand, but a large-
sized square pianoforte; and the substance of the story, the end of all the
dialogue which ensued of surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her
side, and explanations on Miss Bates's, was, that this pianoforte had
arrived from Broadwood's the day before, to the great astonishment of both
aunt and niece—entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates's account,
Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could
possibly have ordered it—but now, they were both perfectly satisfied that it
could be from only one quarter;—of course it must be from Colonel
Campbell.
"One can suppose nothing else," added Mrs. Cole, "and I was only
surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems, had a
letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows
their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for
their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to surprize her."
Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the
subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell,
and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were
enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen
to Mrs. Cole.
"I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given
me more satisfaction!—It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who
plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a
shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine
instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap,
to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was
ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I
do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just
beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane
Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an
instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself
with.—I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed
with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help
indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours
might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and
that really is the reason why the instrument was bought—or else I am sure
we ought to be ashamed of it.—We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse
may be prevailed with to try it this evening."
Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that
nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's,
turned to Frank Churchill.
"Very."
"Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."
"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument—which
must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."
"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs.
Bates's house."
"You may say what you chuse—but your countenance testifies that your
thoughts on this subject are very much like mine."
"I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for
acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably
suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there
is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?"
"Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She
must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be;
and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young
woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told
you that your suspicions would guide mine."
"If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend Mr. Dixon in
them."
"Mr. Dixon.—Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the
joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you
know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance."
"Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I
had entertained before.—I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions
of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either
that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall
in love with her, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her
side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but
I am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to
Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be
leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been all
enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a
mere excuse.—In the summer it might have passed; but what can any
body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and
March? Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in
most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's. I do not require you to
adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it,
but I honestly tell you what they are."
"And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon's
preference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very
decided."
"And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?— A water
party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her."
"I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that
Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught
her.—It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and
alarm was very great and much more durable—indeed I believe it was half
an hour before any of us were comfortable again—yet that was too general
a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not
mean to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries."
The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other
ladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree of her
own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her dignity and
grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the artless
manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful,
unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations of
pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed affection. There she
sat—and who would have guessed how many tears she had been lately
shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and seeing others nicely
dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say nothing, was enough for
the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax did look and move superior;
but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change feelings with
Harriet, very glad to have purchased the mortification of having loved—yes,
of having loved even Mr. Elton in vain—by the surrender of all the
dangerous pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her
friend.
They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of
the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the handsomest;
and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece,
made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle, where sat Miss
Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her, would not sit at all. Emma
divined what every body present must be thinking. She was his object, and
every body must perceive it. She introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith,
and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard what each thought of the
other. "He had never seen so lovely a face, and was delighted with her
naivete." And she, "Only to be sure it was paying him too great a
compliment, but she did think there were some looks a little like Mr.
Elton." Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned from her in
silence.
She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at
its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at
home than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He did
not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his aunt
where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing it, he
owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he could with time
persuade her to any thing. One of those points on which his influence
failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted very much to go abroad—had
been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel—but she would not hear of
it. This had happened the year before. Now, he said, he was beginning to
have no longer the same wish.
"Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day,
out of so few, in having your hair cut."
The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself
obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole. When
Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as before,
she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss Fairfax,
who was sitting exactly opposite.
He started. "Thank you for rousing me," he replied. "I believe I have
been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a way—
so very odd a way—that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw any
thing so outree!—Those curls!—This must be a fancy of her own. I see
nobody else looking like her!— I must go and ask her whether it is an Irish
fashion. Shall I?— Yes, I will—I declare I will—and you shall see how she
takes it;—whether she colours."
He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before
Miss Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as he
had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in front of
Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.
"This is the luxury of a large party," said she:—"one can get near every
body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to you. I
have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like yourself, and I
must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how Miss Bates and
her niece came here?"
"How?—They were invited, were not they?"
"Well," said Mrs. Weston, smiling, "you give him credit for more simple,
disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while Miss Bates
was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have never been able
to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more probable it appears. In
short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See
the consequence of keeping you company!—What do you say to it?"
"Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!" exclaimed Emma. "Dear Mrs. Weston,
how could you think of such a thing?—Mr. Knightley!—Mr. Knightley must
not marry!—You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?— Oh!
no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley's
marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that you should
think of such a thing."
"My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not
want the match—I do not want to injure dear little Henry—but the idea has
been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to
marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry's account, a boy of six
years old, who knows nothing of the matter?"
"Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well
know."
"I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than
what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would be
quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for the
Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax—and is always glad to
shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-making.
You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey!—Oh! no, no;—every
feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing."
"My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really loves
Jane Fairfax—"
"Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I
am sure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but—"
"Well," said Mrs. Weston, laughing, "perhaps the greatest good he could
do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home."
"Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told
her so."
"You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have
many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment—I
believe nothing of the pianoforte—and proof only shall convince me that
Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax."
They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma
rather gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the
most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them
that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;—and at the same
moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them
the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her
conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that he
had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very
pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to lead,
she gave a very proper compliance.
She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more
than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in
the little things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany her
own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by
surprize—a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill. Her
pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and every thing usual
followed. He was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect
knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing
of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang together
once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose
performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to
conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own.
With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the
numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They
had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of
Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma's
mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston's
suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only
momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's marrying did
not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a
great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A
real injury to the children—a most mortifying change, and material loss to
them all;—a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort—and, as
to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell
Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!—No—Mr. Knightley
must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.
Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her.
They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly
very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck
her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in
conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of
cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to
dwell on any kindness of his own.
"I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more
useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you
know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for
such a purpose."
"Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;— "but
you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming
pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step.
"This present from the Campbells," said she—"this pianoforte is very
kindly given."
From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley
had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely
free from peculiar attachment—whether there were no actual preference—
remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song,
her voice grew thick.
"That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud—"you have
sung quite enough for one evening—now be quiet."
Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;—they would
not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more."
And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this
without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls
on the second."
"That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off
his own voice. This must not be." And touching Miss Bates, who at that
moment passed near—"Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing
herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on
her."
Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be
grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing.
Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss
Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes)
the proposal of dancing—originating nobody exactly knew where—was so
effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly
clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-
dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank
Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured
her hand, and led her up to the top.
While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off,
Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her
voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley.
This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very
alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no
immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole—he was looking on
unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to
Mrs. Cole.
Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and
she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five
couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it
very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They were
a couple worth looking at.
CHAPTER IX
Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit
afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she
might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must be
amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted the
Coles—worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!—And left a name
behind her that would not soon die away.
Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two
points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not
transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of
Jane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it had
been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission to all
that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult
for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue.
The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and there
she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the
inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily grieve over
the idleness of her childhood—and sat down and practised vigorously an
hour and a half.
She was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's praise
could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.
"Oh! dear—I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite
as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body last
night said how well you played."
"Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The
truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised, but Jane
Fairfax's is much beyond it."
"Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or
that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole said
how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about
your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution."
"Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any
taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.— There is no
understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you
know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to
teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into any
great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?"
Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its
producing Mr. Elton.
"They told me—that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday."
"Oh!"
"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay
to dinner."
"Oh!"
"They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not
know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay
there again next summer."
"She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at
dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry
him."
"Very likely.—I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar girls
in Highbury."
Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always
very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins and
changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.—Much could
not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;— Mr.
Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the office-
door, Mr. Cole's carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a stray letter-
boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she could presume to
expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray, a tidy old
woman travelling homewards from shop with her full basket, two curs
quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling children round the
baker's little bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she knew she had no
reason to complain, and was amused enough; quite enough still to stand at
the door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can
see nothing that does not answer.
She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons
appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into
Highbury;—to Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the first
place at Mrs. Bates's; whose house was a little nearer Randalls than Ford's;
and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their eye.—Immediately they
crossed the road and came forward to her; and the agreeableness of
yesterday's engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to the present
meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call on the
Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.
"For my companion tells me," said she, "that I absolutely promised Miss
Bates last night, that I would come this morning. I was not aware of it
myself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I am
going now."
"And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope," said
Frank Churchill, "to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield—if you are
going home."
"I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much
pleased."
"I do not believe any such thing," replied Emma.—"I am persuaded that
you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but there
is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise
indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night."
"Do come with me," said Mrs. Weston, "if it be not very disagreeable to
you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards. We will
follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It will be felt so
great an attention! and I always thought you meant it."
He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him,
returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door. Emma watched them in,
and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,—trying, with all the
force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it
was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be it ever so
beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At last it was all
settled, even to the destination of the parcel.
"No trouble in the world, ma'am," said the obliging Mrs. Ford.
"Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you
please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's— I do not know—No, I
think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and
take it home with me at night. What do you advise?"
"Aye, that will be much best," said Harriet, quite satisfied, "I should not
at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard's."
Voices approached the shop—or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs.
Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.
"My dear Miss Woodhouse," said the latter, "I am just run across to
entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while, and
give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How do
you do, Miss Smith?—Very well I thank you.—And I begged Mrs. Weston
to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding."
Emma would be "very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.," and they did
at last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than,
"How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you
before. I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town.
Jane came back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well—
only a little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in."
"What was I talking of?" said she, beginning again when they were all in
the street.
Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors
walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to, pursued
only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.
"Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take
care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase—rather darker and
narrower than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss
Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss Smith,
the step at the turning."
CHAPTER X
Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most
happy countenance on seeing Emma again.
"This is a pleasure," said he, in rather a low voice, "coming at least ten
minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be useful; tell
me if you think I shall succeed."
"What!" said Mrs. Weston, "have not you finished it yet? you would not
earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate."
"I have not been working uninterruptedly," he replied, "I have been
assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily, it
was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see we have
been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be
persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home."
At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the
powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs. Weston
had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined her in all
her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was
pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.
Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had
been speaking to her at the same moment.
"It is not fair," said Emma, in a whisper; "mine was a random guess. Do
not distress her."
He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little
doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again,
He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,
"If you are very kind," said he, "it will be one of the waltzes we danced
last night;—let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them as I did;
you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no
longer; but I would have given worlds—all the worlds one ever has to
give—for another half-hour."
She played.
"What felicity it is to hear a tune again which has made one happy!— If
I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth."
Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being
amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the
remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of
consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple
in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.—This
amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very
reprehensible feelings.
He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.—
Emma took the opportunity of whispering,
"I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least
ashamed of my meaning."
"But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea."
"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have
now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does
wrong, she ought to feel it."
Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr.
Knightley on horse-back not far off.
She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the
casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every
syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it
had passed within the same apartment.
"How is your niece, Miss Bates?—I want to inquire after you all, but
particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?—I hope she caught no cold
last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."
And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would
hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston
gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in
steady scepticism.
"So obliged to you!—so very much obliged to you for the carriage,"
resumed Miss Bates.
"Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for you?"
"No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?— Miss
Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte.
Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in."
"No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on
to Kingston as fast as I can."
"No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the
pianoforte."
"Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss
Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes.
And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not
be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston
is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. Now,
if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud
about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it."
"Yes," said Jane, "we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing."
"Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door
was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You
must have heard every thing to be sure. 'Can I do any thing for you at
Kingston?' said he; so I just mentioned. . . . Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you
be going?—You seem but just come—so very obliging of you."
Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted
long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to
be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could
allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield gates,
before they set off for Randalls.
CHAPTER XI
His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole's
should be finished there—that the same party should be collected, and the
same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr. Weston
entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston most
willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance; and the
interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly who there
would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of space to every
couple.
"You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss
Coxes five," had been repeated many times over. "And there will be the two
Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley. Yes,
that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and Miss
Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five couple
there will be plenty of room."
"But will there be good room for five couple?—I really do not think
there will."
On another,
"And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to
stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it. It
will not do to invite five couple. It can be allowable only as the thought of
the moment."
Somebody said that Miss Gilbert was expected at her brother's, and
must be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed Mrs. Gilbert would
have danced the other evening, if she had been asked. A word was put in
for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one family of
cousins who must be included, and another of very old acquaintance who
could not be left out, it became a certainty that the five couple would be at
least ten, and a very interesting speculation in what possible manner they
could be disposed of.
The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. "Might not
they use both rooms, and dance across the passage?" It seemed the best
scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a better.
Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress about the
supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score of health. It
made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be persevered in.
"Oh! no," said he; "it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not
bear it for Emma!—Emma is not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold.
So would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would be
quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do not let
them talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very thoughtless. Do
not tell his father, but that young man is not quite the thing. He has been
opening the doors very often this evening, and keeping them open very
inconsiderately. He does not think of the draught. I do not mean to set you
against him, but indeed he is not quite the thing!"
Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of
it, and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now
closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only in
the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on Frank
Churchill's part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before had been
deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now endeavoured to be made
out quite enough for ten.
"We were too magnificent," said he. "We allowed unnecessary room. Ten
couple may stand here very well."
Emma demurred. "It would be a crowd—a sad crowd; and what could
be worse than dancing without space to turn in?"
"Very true," he gravely replied; "it was very bad." But still he went on
measuring, and still he ended with,
"I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple."
"No, no," said she, "you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful to
be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be
dancing in a crowd—and a crowd in a little room!"
"There is no denying it," he replied. "I agree with you exactly. A crowd
in a little room—Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a
few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!—Still, however, having proceeded so
far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment to
my father—and altogether—I do not know that—I am rather of opinion that
ten couple might stand here very well."
Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed,
and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her;
but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever
to marry him, it might have been worth while to pause and consider, and
try to understand the value of his preference, and the character of his
temper; but for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable
enough.
Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered
the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of the
scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.
"The Crown!"
"Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you
cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there.
Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less grateful
welcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no objection
to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all feel. Oh! you were
perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the Randalls rooms, would have
been insufferable!—Dreadful!—I felt how right you were the whole time,
but was too anxious for securing any thing to like to yield. Is not it a good
exchange?—You consent—I hope you consent?"
"It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs.
Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for myself,
shall be most happy—It seems the only improvement that could be. Papa,
do you not think it an excellent improvement?"
She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully
comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were
necessary to make it acceptable.
"I was going to observe, sir," said Frank Churchill, "that one of the great
recommendations of this change would be the very little danger of any
body's catching cold—so much less danger at the Crown than at Randalls!
Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody else
could."
"Sir," said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, "you are very much mistaken
if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is extremely
concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how the room at
the Crown can be safer for you than your father's house."
"From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no
occasion to open the windows at all—not once the whole evening; and it is
that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon heated
bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief."
"Have you indeed, sir?—Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I
live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However,
this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it over—
but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One cannot
resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as
to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what can be done."
"Oh!" interrupted Emma, "there will be plenty of time for talking every
thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at the
Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be so near
their own stable."
"So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever
complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could be
sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired—but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted?
I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight."
"I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be
under Mrs. Weston's care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole."
"Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor little
Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been
very bad, but for Perry's great attention. He came four times a day for a
week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort—which was our great
comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor
Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry."
"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment," said
Frank Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there
and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might
be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was desired
to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them, if you could
allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing satisfactorily without
you."
Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father,
engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people set
off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston;
delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy
in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he, finding every
thing perfect.
"Emma," said she, "this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places
you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and forlorn
than any thing I could have imagined."
"My dear, you are too particular," said her husband. "What does all that
signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as clean as
Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our club-nights."
The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, "Men never
know when things are dirty or not;" and the gentlemen perhaps thought
each to himself, "Women will have their little nonsenses and needless
cares."
One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain. It
regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom's being built, suppers
had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was the only
addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted as a card-
room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by their four
selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable supper? Another room
of much better size might be secured for the purpose; but it was at the
other end of the house, and a long awkward passage must be gone through
to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts for
the young people in that passage; and neither Emma nor the gentlemen
could tolerate the prospect of being miserably crowded at supper.
"I do not think it is so very small. We shall not be many, you know."
And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps
through the passage, was calling out,
"I wish," said Mrs. Weston, "one could know which arrangement our
guests in general would like best. To do what would be most generally
pleasing must be our object—if one could but tell what that would be."
"Yes, very true," cried Frank, "very true. You want your neighbours'
opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief of
them—the Coles, for instance. They are not far off. Shall I call upon them?
Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer.— And I do not know whether Miss Bates
is not as likely to understand the inclinations of the rest of the people as
any body. I think we do want a larger council. Suppose I go and invite Miss
Bates to join us?"
"Well—if you please," said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, "if you think
she will be of any use."
"You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates," said Emma. "She
will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She will not
even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in consulting Miss Bates."
"Aye, do, Frank.—Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at
once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a properer
person for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates. We
are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of how to be happy.
But fetch them both. Invite them both."
"The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a great
blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece."
Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must. As
a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer
character,) she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general and
minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another half-
hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different rooms, some
suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the future. The
party did not break up without Emma's being positively secured for the two
first dances by the hero of the evening, nor without her overhearing Mr.
Weston whisper to his wife, "He has asked her, my dear. That's right. I
knew he would!"
CHAPTER XII
One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely
satisfactory to Emma—its being fixed for a day within the granted term of
Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston's confidence, she
could not think it so very impossible that the Churchills might not allow
their nephew to remain a day beyond his fortnight. But this was not judged
feasible. The preparations must take their time, nothing could be properly
ready till the third week were entered on, and for a few days they must be
planning, proceeding and hoping in uncertainty—at the risk—in her
opinion, the great risk, of its being all in vain.
"Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble
for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but
that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.— Oh! yes, I must be there; I
could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would
rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's week's account; much
rather, I confess.— Pleasure in seeing dancing!—not I, indeed—I never look
at it— I do not know who does.—Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must
be its own reward. Those who are standing by are usually thinking of
something very different."
This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was
not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so
indignant; he was not guided by her feelings in reprobating the ball, for she
enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made her
animated—open hearted—she voluntarily said;—
"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.
What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with
very great pleasure."
It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred
the society of William Larkins. No!—she was more and more convinced that
Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great deal of
friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side—but no love.
Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two
days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of
every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's instant
return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell—far too unwell to do without him; she
had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when writing to her
nephew two days before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain,
and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it;
but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for
Enscombe without delay.
Mrs. Weston added, "that he could only allow himself time to hurry to
Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he
could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be expected at
Hartfield very soon."
This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it
had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The
loss of the ball—the loss of the young man—and all that the young man
might be feeling!—It was too wretched!— Such a delightful evening as it
would have been!—Every body so happy! and she and her partner the
happiest!—"I said it would be so," was the only consolation.
Her father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of Mrs.
Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the
ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all
be safer at home.
Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if
this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want
of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away
almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat
really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it
was only to say,
"But you will come again," said Emma. "This will not be your only visit
to Randalls."
"Ah! that ball!—why did we wait for any thing?—why not seize the
pleasure at once?—How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,
foolish preparation!—You told us it would be so.—Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
why are you always so right?"
"If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends on
it. Do not forget your engagement."
"As you do us such ample justice now," said Emma, laughing, "I will
venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first? Do not
we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did
not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in coming, if
you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury."
"Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss
Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might
have strengthened yours."
"Yes—I have called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It was a
right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained by Miss
Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till
she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one must laugh at; but that
one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then"—
"In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse—I think you can hardly
be quite without suspicion"—
"It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to
Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm"—
A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr.
Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of
procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was
doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he might
and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.
"I shall hear about you all," said he; "that is my chief consolation. I shall
hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs.
Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh!
the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the
absent!—she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear
Highbury again."
A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the
speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the
notice—short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part,
and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to
begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much.
It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his
arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two
weeks—indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which
every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness,
his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the
sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete
every other recommendation, he had almost told her that he loved her.
What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was
another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly
warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion,
joined to all the rest, made her think that she must be a little in love with
him, in spite of every previous determination against it.
"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really
out of luck; you are very much out of luck!"
It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest
regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was
odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache
to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she
did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute
some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health.
CHAPTER XIII
"I do not find myself making any use of the word sacrifice," said she.—
"In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any
allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to
my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to
feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be
more."
Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his
feelings.
When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it;
and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at
first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had
undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the
particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection,
gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and describing
every thing exterior and local that could be supposed attractive, with spirit
and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it was
the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and the transition from
Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast between the places in some of the first
blessings of social life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it
was felt, and how much more might have been said but for the restraints of
propriety.—The charm of her own name was not wanting. Miss Woodhouse
appeared more than once, and never without a something of pleasing
connexion, either a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she
had said; and in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it
was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect
of her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all
conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these
words—"I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss
Woodhouse's beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus to
her." This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was
remembered only from being her friend. His information and prospects as
to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated; Mrs.
Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own
imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.
"I must not dwell upon it," said she.—"I must not think of it. I know the
danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have happened;
and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it will be the
means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which I
can already look forward to with pleasure."
Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager
exclamation. Emma continued,
"I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk less
of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I would wish it
to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit
of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an attention
to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your
health and credit, and restore your tranquillity. These are the motives
which I have been pressing on you. They are very important—and sorry I
am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved
from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself
from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would
not forget what was due—or rather what would be kind by me."
This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of
wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really
loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of
grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to
what was right and support her in it very tolerably.
"You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life— Want
gratitude to you!—Nobody is equal to you!—I care for nobody as I do for
you!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!"
Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and
manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well,
nor valued her affection so highly before.
CHAPTER XIV
Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be
interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and it must
be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to settle whether
she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or not pretty at all.
She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to
which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to lace up
her boot, without recollecting. A thousand vexatious thoughts would recur.
Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was not to be
supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but she behaved
very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit was of course
short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation of mind to
shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to form an opinion
of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the nothing-meaning
terms of being "elegantly dressed, and very pleasing."
She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault,
but she suspected that there was no elegance;—ease, but not elegance.—
She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was
too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty; but
neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma thought
at least it would turn out so.
As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear—but no, she would not
permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was an
awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man
had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman was
better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the privilege of
bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to depend on; and
when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr. Elton was in being in
the same room at once with the woman he had just married, the woman he
had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had been expected to
marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as little wise, and to be
as much affectedly, and as little really easy as could be.
"Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the
house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss
Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?— Is not she
very charming?"
"I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she was very
much attached to him."
"Perhaps she might; but it is not every man's fate to marry the woman
who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought
this the best offer she was likely to have."
"Yes," said Harriet earnestly, "and well she might, nobody could ever
have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss
Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as
superior as ever;—but being married, you know, it is quite a different thing.
No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and admire
him now without any great misery. To know that he has not thrown himself
away, is such a comfort!— She does seem a charming young woman, just
what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her 'Augusta.' How delightful!"
When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then
see more and judge better. From Harriet's happening not to be at Hartfield,
and her father's being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter of an
hour of the lady's conversation to herself, and could composedly attend to
her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that Mrs. Elton was a
vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and thinking much of her
own importance; that she meant to shine and be very superior, but with
manners which had been formed in a bad school, pert and familiar; that all
her notions were drawn from one set of people, and one style of living; that
if not foolish she was ignorant, and that her society would certainly do Mr.
Elton no good.
Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself,
she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it
might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of her
own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the alliance,
and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.
The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, "My brother
Mr. Suckling's seat;"—a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The
grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was
modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by
the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or imagine.
"Very like Maple Grove indeed!—She was quite struck by the likeness!—
That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room at Maple
Grove; her sister's favourite room."— Mr. Elton was appealed to.—"Was not
it astonishingly like?— She could really almost fancy herself at Maple
Grove."
"And the staircase—You know, as I came in, I observed how very like
the staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really
could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very
delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as
Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there! (with a little sigh
of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body who sees it is
struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home. Whenever you are
transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will understand how very
delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like what one has left behind. I
always say this is quite one of the evils of matrimony."
Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient for
Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.
"So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house—the
grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like. The
laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand very
much in the same way—just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a fine
large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in mind! My
brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People who have
extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same
style."
Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that
people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the
extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an
error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,
"When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think
you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties."
"Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you
know. Surry is the garden of England."
"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many
counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry."
"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile." I
never heard any county but Surry called so."
"No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very
striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we are
a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than
engage in schemes of pleasure."
"Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can
be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple
Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol, 'I
really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must go in
by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau without a
companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never
stir beyond the park paling.' Many a time has she said so; and yet I am no
advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary, when people shut
themselves up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is
much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree, without living
in it either too much or too little. I perfectly understand your situation,
however, Miss Woodhouse—(looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your
father's state of health must be a great drawback. Why does not he try
Bath?—Indeed he should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you I
have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse good."
"My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any
benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you,
does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now."
"Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the
waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath life, I
have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place, that it could
not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits, which, I understand, are
sometimes much depressed. And as to its recommendations to you, I fancy I
need not take much pains to dwell on them. The advantages of Bath to the
young are pretty generally understood. It would be a charming introduction
for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure
you some of the best society in the place. A line from me would bring you a
little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the
lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to
shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into
public with."
It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea
of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an introduction—of
her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's—
probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just
made a shift to live!— The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was
sunk indeed!
She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could
have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath
was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the
place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent farther
outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.
"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these
occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long
known that you are a superior performer."
"Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior
performer!—very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a
quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of music—passionately
fond;—and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any
thing else, upon my honour my performance is mediocre to the last degree.
You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully. I assure you it has
been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a
musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a
necessary of life to me; and having always been used to a very musical
society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most
serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking
of my future home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should
be disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too—knowing what I had
been accustomed to—of course he was not wholly without apprehension.
When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that the world I
could give up—parties, balls, plays—for I had no fear of retirement. Blessed
with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to me. I
could do very well without it. To those who had no resources it was a
different thing; but my resources made me quite independent. And as to
smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could not give it a
thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description.
Certainly I had been accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did
assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor
were spacious apartments. 'But,' said I, 'to be quite honest, I do not think I
can live without something of a musical society. I condition for nothing
else; but without music, life would be a blank to me.'"
"We cannot suppose," said Emma, smiling, "that Mr. Elton would
hesitate to assure you of there being a very musical society in Highbury;
and I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be
pardoned, in consideration of the motive."
"I should hope not; but really when I look around among my
acquaintance, I tremble. Selina has entirely given up music—never touches
the instrument—though she played sweetly. And the same may be said of
Mrs. Jeffereys—Clara Partridge, that was—and of the two Milmans, now
Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate. Upon
my word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with
Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has
many things to call her attention. I believe I was half an hour this morning
shut up with my housekeeper."
"But every thing of that kind," said Emma, "will soon be in so regular a
train—"
"We have been calling at Randalls," said she, "and found them both at
home; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely. Mr.
Weston seems an excellent creature—quite a first-rate favourite with me
already, I assure you. And she appears so truly good—there is something so
motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one directly. She
was your governess, I think?"
Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton
hardly waited for the affirmative before she went on.
"Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so
very lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman."
Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance—
and how could she possibly guess?
Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could
breathe.
"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."
"But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why
should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a bride? It ought to be no
recommendation to you. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so
much of them."
"My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common
politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any
encouragement to people to marry."
Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not
understand her. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very
long, did they occupy her.
CHAPTER XV
Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill
opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as
Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared
whenever they met again,—self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant,
and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but so
little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of
the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood; and conceived
Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs. Elton's
consequence only could surpass.
In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at
first. Her feelings altered towards Emma.—Offended, probably, by the little
encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew back in
her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and though the
effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was necessarily
increasing Emma's dislike. Her manners, too—and Mr. Elton's, were
unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and negligent. Emma
hoped it must rapidly work Harriet's cure; but the sensations which could
prompt such behaviour sunk them both very much.—It was not to be
doubted that poor Harriet's attachment had been an offering to conjugal
unreserve, and her own share in the story, under a colouring the least
favourable to her and the most soothing to him, had in all likelihood been
given also. She was, of course, the object of their joint dislike.— When they
had nothing else to say, it must be always easy to begin abusing Miss
Woodhouse; and the enmity which they dared not shew in open disrespect
to her, found a broader vent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet.
Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first. Not
merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to
recommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied
with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration—but without
solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and befriend
her.—Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the third time
of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton's knight-errantry on the subject.—
"I cannot think there is any danger of it," was Emma's calm answer—
"and when you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax's situation and
understand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I
have no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown."
"Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such
obscurity, so thrown away.—Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed
with the Campbells are so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it. I am
sure she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she feels the
want of encouragement. I like her the better for it. I must confess it is a
recommendation to me. I am a great advocate for timidity—and I am sure
one does not often meet with it.—But in those who are at all inferior, it is
extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful
character, and interests me more than I can express."
"You appear to feel a great deal—but I am not aware how you or any of
Miss Fairfax's acquaintance here, any of those who have known her longer
than yourself, can shew her any other attention than"—
"My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare
to act. You and I need not be afraid. If we set the example, many will
follow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations. We have
carriages to fetch and convey her home, and we live in a style which could
not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the least inconvenient.—
I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to send us up such a
dinner, as could make me regret having asked more than Jane Fairfax to
partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of thing. It is not likely that I
should, considering what I have been used to. My greatest danger, perhaps,
in housekeeping, may be quite the other way, in doing too much, and being
too careless of expense. Maple Grove will probably be my model more than
it ought to be—for we do not at all affect to equal my brother, Mr.
Suckling, in income.—However, my resolution is taken as to noticing Jane
Fairfax.— I shall certainly have her very often at my house, shall introduce
her wherever I can, shall have musical parties to draw out her talents, and
shall be constantly on the watch for an eligible situation. My acquaintance
is so very extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit
her shortly.—I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my
brother and sister when they come to us. I am sure they will like her
extremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears will
completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners of either but
what is highly conciliating.—I shall have her very often indeed while they
are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a seat for her in the
barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties."
Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells
were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had
promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh
invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss
Bates—it all came from her—Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly.
Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends
contrived—no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had
declined it!
"She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing
this invitation," was Emma's conclusion. "She must be under some sort of
penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear,
great caution, great resolution somewhere.— She is not to be with the
Dixons. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be
with the Eltons?—Here is quite a separate puzzle."
Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before
the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this
apology for Jane.
"We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage,
my dear Emma—but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a
good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We
must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for
what she goes to."
"You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax
is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she
have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen her. But
(with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton,
which nobody else pays her."
Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and
she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently
replied,
"I should not wonder," said Mrs. Weston, "if Miss Fairfax were to have
been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in
accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely
have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of
intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very
natural wish of a little change."
Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few
minutes silence, he said,
"Another thing must be taken into consideration too—Mrs. Elton does
not talk to Miss Fairfax as she speaks of her. We all know the difference
between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us;
we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our
personal intercourse with each other—a something more early implanted.
We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very
full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation
of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs.
Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face,
Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to. Such a
woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before—and
no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative
littleness in action, if not in consciousness."
"I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax," said Emma. Little Henry
was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her
irresolute what else to say.
"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her."
"And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but
soon stopping—it was better, however, to know the worst at once—she
hurried on—"And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how
highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some
day or other."
Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick
leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some
other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered,
"Oh! are you there?—But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave
me a hint of it six weeks ago."
He stopped.—Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not
herself know what to think. In a moment he went on—
"That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare say,
would not have me if I were to ask her—and I am very sure I shall never
ask her."
Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased
enough to exclaim,
"You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you."
"So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?"
"No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-
making, for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just
now, meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without any
idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest
wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come
in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married."
Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, "No,
Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me
by surprize.—I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure you." And
soon afterwards, "Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman—but not
even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has not the open temper
which a man would wish for in a wife."
Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. "Well," said
she, "and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?"
"Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken;
he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or
wittier than his neighbours."
"In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and
wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles—what she
calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough in
familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley—what can she do for Mr. Cole?
And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her civilities and
consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument weighs most with me.
I can much more readily enter into the temptation of getting away from
Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of Miss Fairfax's mind over
Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton's acknowledging herself the
inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her being under any restraint
beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding. I cannot imagine that she will
not be continually insulting her visitor with praise, encouragement, and
offers of service; that she will not be continually detailing her magnificent
intentions, from the procuring her a permanent situation to the including
her in those delightful exploring parties which are to take place in the
barouche-landau."
"Jane Fairfax has feeling," said Mr. Knightley—"I do not accuse her of
want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong—and her temper
excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control; but it wants
openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than she used to be—
And I love an open temper. No—till Cole alluded to my supposed
attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax and conversed
with her, with admiration and pleasure always—but with no thought
beyond."
"Well, Mrs. Weston," said Emma triumphantly when he left them, "what
do you say now to Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax?"
"Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the
idea of not being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it were to end
in his being so at last. Do not beat me."
CHAPTER XVI
Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was
disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and evening-
parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed in so fast
that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were never to have a
disengaged day.
"I see how it is," said she. "I see what a life I am to lead among you.
Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite the
fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very formidable. From
Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a disengaged day!—A
woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have been at a loss."
No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties
perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for dinners.
She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor
attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-parties.
Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a good deal behind-
hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon shew them how every
thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the spring she must return their
civilities by one very superior party—in which her card-tables should be set
out with their separate candles and unbroken packs in the true style—and
more waiters engaged for the evening than their own establishment could
furnish, to carry round the refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in
the proper order.
Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all
happy.— The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet
over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little
Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some
weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and
staying one whole day at Hartfield—which one day would be the very day
of this party.—His professional engagements did not allow of his being put
off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening so. Mr.
Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the utmost that
his nerves could bear—and here would be a ninth—and Emma apprehended
that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not being able to come
even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without falling in with a dinner-
party.
She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by
representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he always
said so little, that the increase of noise would be very immaterial. She
thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his grave
looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of his brother.
The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John
Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and
must be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them in the
evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease; and
the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the philosophic
composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the chief of even
Emma's vexation.
The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John
Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable.
Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they waited for
dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace and
pearls could make her, he looked at in silence— wanting only to observe
enough for Isabella's information—but Miss Fairfax was an old
acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. He had met her
before breakfast as he was returning from a walk with his little boys, when
it had been just beginning to rain. It was natural to have some civil hopes
on the subject, and he said,
"I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am sure
you must have been wet.—We scarcely got home in time. I hope you turned
directly."
"I went only to the post-office," said she, "and reached home before the
rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters when I am
here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A walk before
breakfast does me good."
"That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six yards
from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and Henry
and John had seen more drops than they could count long before. The post-
office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you have lived to
my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the
rain for."
"I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every
dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing older
should make me indifferent about letters."
"Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well—I
am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I
can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than to me,
but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the
difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every body dearest to you
always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and therefore till I have
outlived all my affections, a post-office, I think, must always have power to
draw me out, in worse weather than to-day."
It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant "thank
you" seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear in the
eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was now claimed
by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such occasions,
making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular compliments to
the ladies, was ending with her—and with all his mildest urbanity, said,
"I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning in
the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.— Young ladies are
delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their complexion.
My dear, did you change your stockings?"
"Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind
solicitude about me."
"My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.— I
hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They are some of my very
old friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You do
us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I are both
highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest satisfaction in
seeing you at Hartfield."
The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he
had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.
By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her
remonstrances now opened upon Jane.
Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.
"Oh! do not tell me. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know
how to take care of yourself.—To the post-office indeed! Mrs. Weston, did
you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our authority."
"My advice," said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, "I certainly do
feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.— Liable as
you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful,
especially at this time of year. The spring I always think requires more than
common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day for your
letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again. Now do not you
feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable. You look as
if you would not do such a thing again."
"Oh! she shall not do such a thing again," eagerly rejoined Mrs. Elton.
"We will not allow her to do such a thing again:"—and nodding
significantly—"there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed. I
shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning (one
of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and bring them to
you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and from us I really think,
my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation."
"You are extremely kind," said Jane; "but I cannot give up my early
walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk
somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have
scarcely ever had a bad morning before."
"My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is
(laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing without
the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I
must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself, my dear
Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I meet with no
insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled."
"Excuse me," said Jane earnestly, "I cannot by any means consent to
such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the
errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I
am not here, by my grandmama's."
"The clerks grow expert from habit.—They must begin with some
quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any
farther explanation," continued he, smiling, "they are paid for it. That is the
key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served well."
The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual
observations made.
"I have heard it asserted," said John Knightley, "that the same sort of
handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches,
it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must
be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an
early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella and Emma, I
think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing
apart."
"Isabella and Emma both write beautifully," said Mr. Woodhouse; "and
always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston"—with half a sigh and half a
smile at her.
"I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley. "It is too small—wants
strength. It is like a woman's writing."
This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against
the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength—it was not a large
hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter
about her to produce?" No, she had heard from him very lately, but having
answered the letter, had put it away.
"If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I
am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.— Do not you
remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?"
"Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr.
Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of
course, put forth his best."
Dinner was on table.—Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was
ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be
allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying—
Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma.
She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the
wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it had; that
it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of
hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She
thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual—a glow both of
complexion and spirits.
She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the
expense of the Irish mails;—it was at her tongue's end—but she abstained.
She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane
Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in
arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and
grace of each.
CHAPTER XVII
"Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June will
soon be here."
"I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet."
"Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the
difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing."
"I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can
have thought of it as I have done?"
"But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not
know how many candidates there always are for the first situations. I saw a
vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr.
Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was
anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in
the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the
kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in."
"Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her;
till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble."
"But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June,
or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us.
Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and
your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not
obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring
directly."
"Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at
the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the
abolition."
"I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane;
"governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different
certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater
misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say
that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should
have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do."
"Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, that may suit
your humble ideas of yourself;—I know what a modest creature you are;
but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that
may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a
certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life."
"You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it would
be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would
only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman's
family is all that I should condition for."
"I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall
be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my
side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle.
Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms,
have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you
chose;—that is—I do not know—if you knew the harp, you might do all
that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;—yes, I really believe you
might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;—and you must
and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the
Campbells or I have any rest."
"You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a
situation together," said Jane, "they are pretty sure to be equal; however, I
am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me.
I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body who
feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the
summer. For two or three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I
am."
"And I am quite serious too, I assure you," replied Mrs. Elton gaily, "in
resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to watch
also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us."
In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr.
Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object,
and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,
"Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!—Only think of his
gallantry in coming away before the other men!—what a dear creature he
is;—I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint, old-
fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease;
modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish
you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I
began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am
rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like it?—Selina's
choice—handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is not over-
trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed—
quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments now, because it is
expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like a bride, but my
natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of dress is so infinitely
preferable to finery. But I am quite in the minority, I believe; few people
seem to value simplicity of dress,—show and finery are every thing. I have
some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and silver
poplin. Do you think it will look well?"
The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when
Mr. Weston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late
dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too
much expected by the best judges, for surprize—but there was great joy.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been
sorry to see him before. John Knightley only was in mute astonishment.—
That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at home after a day
of business in London, should set off again, and walk half a mile to another
man's house, for the sake of being in mixed company till bed-time, of
finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the noise of numbers, was a
circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who had been in motion since
eight o'clock in the morning, and might now have been still, who had been
long talking, and might have been silent, who had been in more than one
crowd, and might have been alone!—Such a man, to quit the tranquillity
and independence of his own fireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety
April day rush out again into the world!—Could he by a touch of his finger
have instantly taken back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his
coming would probably prolong rather than break up the party. John
Knightley looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and
said, "I could not have believed it even of him."
"Read it, read it," said he, "it will give you pleasure; only a few lines—
will not take you long; read it to Emma."
The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking to
them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to every
body.
"Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say
to it?—I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?—Anne,
my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?—In
town next week, you see—at the latest, I dare say; for she is as impatient as
the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most likely they will be
there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all nothing of course. But it
is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town. They
will stay a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with
us. This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have
you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a
good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just
mention the circumstance to the others in a common way."
Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks
and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was
happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm
and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. She was a little occupied
in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her
agitation, which she rather thought was considerable.
It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not
have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted.
They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made
happy;—from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was
so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too
positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her
attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her.
CHAPTER XVIII
"I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you,"
said Mr. Weston.
"Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr.
Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great
pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage."
"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr.
Weston—(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.—A most
dangerous precedent indeed!—I beg you will not let your neighbours follow
your example.—Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married
women must begin to exert ourselves!—Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have
believed it of you!"
"Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs.
Elton.—This letter tells us—it is a short letter—written in a hurry, merely
to give us notice—it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on
Mrs. Churchill's account—she has not been well the whole winter, and
thinks Enscombe too cold for her—so they are all to move southward
without loss of time."
"Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London. a
considerable journey."
"The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that
Mrs. Churchill, as we understand, has not been able to leave the sofa for a
week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too
weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his
uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness—but now she is
so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the
road.—So Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very
extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that."
"No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I Always take the part of my
own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice—You will find me a formidable
antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women—and I assure you, if
you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not
wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina
says it is quite horror to her—and I believe I have caught a little of her
nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent precaution.
Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?"
"Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine
lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land
for"—
"Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough
a fine lady as any body ever beheld."
"If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?—To Bath, or to
Clifton?" "She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold for her.
The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now been a
longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she begins to
want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very retired."
"Aye—like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired
from the road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it!
You seem shut out from every thing—in the most complete retirement.—
And Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy
that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in
herself to be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman cannot have
too many resources—and I feel very thankful that I have so many myself as
to be quite independent of society."
"My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing
possible. Not heard of you!—I believe Mrs. Weston's letters lately have been
full of very little else than Mrs. Elton."
"When Frank left us," continued he, "it was quite uncertain when we
might see him again, which makes this day's news doubly welcome. It has
been completely unexpected. That is, I always had a strong persuasion he
would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn
up—but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully
desponding. 'How could he contrive to come? And how could it be
supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?' and so forth—I
always felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has, you
see. I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if things are
going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next."
"Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used to say to a
certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when, because
things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the rapidity which
suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that he was
sure at this rate it would be May before Hymen's saffron robe would be put
on for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to dispel those gloomy ideas and
give him cheerfuller views! The carriage—we had disappointments about
the carriage;—one morning, I remember, he came to me quite in despair."
She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly
seized the opportunity of going on.
"You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs.
Churchill is ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place
than Enscombe—in short, to spend in London; so that we have the
agreeable prospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring—precisely
the season of the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at
the longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one out, and never
too hot for exercise. When he was here before, we made the best of it; but
there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather; there always is in
February, you know, and we could not do half that we intended. Now will
be the time. This will be complete enjoyment; and I do not know, Mrs.
Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the sort of constant
expectation there will be of his coming in to-day or to-morrow, and at any
hour, may not be more friendly to happiness than having him actually in
the house. I think it is so. I think it is the state of mind which gives most
spirit and delight. I hope you will be pleased with my son; but you must
not expect a prodigy. He is generally thought a fine young man, but do not
expect a prodigy. Mrs. Weston's partiality for him is very great, and, as you
may suppose, most gratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him."
"And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my opinion
will be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so much in praise of Mr. Frank
Churchill.—At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one of those
who always judge for themselves, and are by no means implicitly guided by
others. I give you notice that as I find your son, so I shall judge of him.—I
am no flatterer."
"I hope," said he presently, "I have not been severe upon poor Mrs.
Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but there are
some traits in her character which make it difficult for me to speak of her
with the forbearance I could wish. You cannot be ignorant, Mrs. Elton, of
my connexion with the family, nor of the treatment I have met with; and,
between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid to her. She was the
instigator. Frank's mother would never have been slighted as she was but
for her. Mr. Churchill has pride; but his pride is nothing to his wife's: his is
a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and
only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her pride is arrogance
and insolence! And what inclines one less to bear, she has no fair pretence
of family or blood. She was nobody when he married her, barely the
daughter of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned into a Churchill
she has out-Churchill'd them all in high and mighty claims: but in herself, I
assure you, she is an upstart."
They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston,
having said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.
After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr.
Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers, and
Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed little
disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which nobody
had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits which
would have made her prefer being silent.
Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was to
leave them early the next day; and he soon began with—
"Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the
boys; but you have your sister's letter, and every thing is down at full
length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise than
her's, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to
recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic
them."
"I rather hope to satisfy you both," said Emma, "for I shall do all in my
power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and
happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic."
"And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again."
"I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father—or even
may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to
increase as much as they have done lately."
"Increase!"
"Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a great
difference in your way of life."
"Yes," said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it all."
"No," cried Mr. Knightley, "that need not be the consequence. Let them
be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure."
Ebd
E-BooksDirectory.com
VOLUME III
CHAPTER I
She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration.
That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance!
and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something decisive. She felt
as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a
something to alter her present composed and tranquil state.
It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had
foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank
Churchill's feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as
had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode
down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from
Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick
observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she
must act. They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt
of his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt of
his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the
same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love
than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably of her
indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable effect.
He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed
delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he was
not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read his
comparative difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently
fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed a
liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief on the
subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying away to
make other calls in Highbury. "He had seen a group of old acquaintance in
the street as he passed—he had not stopped, he would not stop for more
than a word—but he had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if
he did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must
hurry off." She had no doubt as to his being less in love—but neither his
agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she
was rather inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power, and
a discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long.
This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days.
He was often hoping, intending to come—but was always prevented. His
aunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at
Randall's. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was to be
inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had been of no service to
the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was really ill was very
certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at Randalls. Though much
might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a
weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago. He did not believe
it to proceed from any thing that care and medicine might not remove, or at
least that she might not have many years of existence before her; but he
could not be prevailed on, by all his father's doubts, to say that her
complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.
It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could not
endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and suffering;
and by the ten days' end, her nephew's letter to Randalls communicated a
change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to Richmond. Mrs.
Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of an eminent person
there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A ready-furnished house in a
favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit expected from the change.
Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement,
and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months
before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends—for the house
was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with the
greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he could
even wish.
Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was
considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She hoped it
was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof.
Mr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood
between the young people of Highbury and happiness.
Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to
him. May was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged
to spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely
hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any
thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.
CHAPTER II
No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma. The
room at the Crown was to witness it;—but it would be better than a
common meeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his
entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves, for the
purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort of the rooms
before any other persons came, that she could not refuse him, and must
therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man's company. She was
to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good time, the Randalls
party just sufficiently before them.
Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did
not say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening.
They all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it should be;
and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of another carriage,
which Emma could not hear the sound of at first, without great surprize.
"So unreasonably early!" she was going to exclaim; but she presently found
that it was a family of old friends, who were coming, like herself, by
particular desire, to help Mr. Weston's judgment; and they were so very
closely followed by another carriage of cousins, who had been entreated to
come early with the same distinguishing earnestness, on the same errand,
that it seemed as if half the company might soon be collected together for
the purpose of preparatory inspection.
Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr.
Weston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man
who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first
distinction in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a little
less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher character.—
General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man what he
ought to be.— She could fancy such a man. The whole party walked about,
and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to do, formed
a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their various modes, till
other subjects were started, that, though May, a fire in the evening was still
very pleasant.
Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston's fault that the number of
privy councillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates's door
to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be brought
by the Eltons.
Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness,
which shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to
the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,—impatient to
begin, or afraid of being always near her.
Mrs. Elton was spoken of. "I think she must be here soon," said he. "I
have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her. It
cannot be long, I think, before she comes."
"I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen
either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward."
Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties
passed.
"But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!" said Mr. Weston, looking about. "We
thought you were to bring them."
The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now.
Emma longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be;
how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of
graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by
giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.
In a few minutes the carriage returned.—Somebody talked of rain.— "I
will see that there are umbrellas, sir," said Frank to his father: "Miss Bates
must not be forgotten:" and away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but
Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so
briskly did she begin, that the young man himself, though by no means
moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.
"A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told
you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am
extremely pleased with him.—You may believe me. I never compliment. I
think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what
I like and approve—so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or
puppyism. You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies— quite a horror
of them. They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling
nor me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say
very cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them
much better."
While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but
when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies just
arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.
Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. "I have no doubt of its being our
carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so
extremely expeditious!—I believe we drive faster than any body.— What a
pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!— I understand you were so
kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary. You may be
very sure I shall always take care of them."
Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked
into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs.
Weston's to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be
understood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every
body's words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who
came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes after
her being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was
heard,
At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not
but imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear
more;—and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till another
suspension brought Mrs. Elton's tones again distinctly forward.—Mr. Elton
had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,
"Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?— I was
this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for
tidings of us."
"Not at all."
"And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?" said Mr. Weston.
"She will think Frank ought to ask her."
Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of the room
where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in
front of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of maintaining it.
He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or speaking to
those who were close to her.— Emma saw it. She was not yet dancing; she
was working her way up from the bottom, and had therefore leisure to look
around, and by only turning her head a little she saw it all. When she was
half-way up the set, the whole group were exactly behind her, and she
would no longer allow her eyes to watch; but Mr. Elton was so near, that
she heard every syllable of a dialogue which just then took place between
him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived that his wife, who was standing
immediately above her, was not only listening also, but even encouraging
him by significant glances.—The kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left
her seat to join him and say, "Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?" to which his
prompt reply was, "Most readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me."
"If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance," said he, "I shall have great pleasure, I
am sure—for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old married man,
and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very great pleasure at
any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert."
"Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady
disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing—Miss Smith." "Miss
Smith!—oh!—I had not observed.—You are extremely obliging— and if I
were not an old married man.—But my dancing days are over, Mrs.
Weston. You will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do,
at your command—but my dancing days are over."
Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what
surprize and mortification she must be returning to her seat. This was Mr.
Elton! the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.— She looked round for a
moment; he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging
himself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed between
him and his wife.
She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her
face might be as hot.
Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted)
very foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though
growing very like her;—she spoke some of her feelings, by observing
audibly to her partner,
Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be
heard from that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table
and taking up her spoon.
"Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?—Here is your tippet. Mrs.
Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there will be
draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done—One door
nailed up—Quantities of matting—My dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr.
Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!—so gratified!
Excellent dancing indeed!— Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I said I should, to
help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody missed me.—I set
off without saying a word, just as I told you. Grandmama was quite well,
had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a vast deal of chat, and
backgammon.—Tea was made downstairs, biscuits and baked apples and
wine before she came away: amazing luck in some of her throws: and she
inquired a great deal about you, how you were amused, and who were your
partners. 'Oh!' said I, 'I shall not forestall Jane; I left her dancing with Mr.
George Otway; she will love to tell you all about it herself to-morrow: her
first partner was Mr. Elton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps
Mr. William Cox.' My dear sir, you are too obliging.—Is there nobody you
would not rather?—I am not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my
word, Jane on one arm, and me on the other!—Stop, stop, let us stand a
little back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she looks!—
Beautiful lace!—Now we all follow in her train. Quite the queen of the
evening!—Well, here we are at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take care of
the two steps. Oh! no, there is but one. Well, I was persuaded there were
two. How very odd! I was convinced there were two, and there is but one. I
never saw any thing equal to the comfort and style—Candles everywhere.—
I was telling you of your grandmama, Jane,—There was a little
disappointment.— The baked apples and biscuits, excellent in their way,
you know; but there was a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and some
asparagus brought in at first, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the
asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all out again. Now there is nothing
grandmama loves better than sweetbread and asparagus—so she was rather
disappointed, but we agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear
of its getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so very much
concerned!—Well, this is brilliant! I am all amazement! could not have
supposed any thing!—Such elegance and profusion!—I have seen nothing
like it since— Well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit? Anywhere, so
that Jane is not in a draught. Where I sit is of no consequence. Oh! do you
recommend this side?—Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill—only it seems too
good—but just as you please. What you direct in this house cannot be
wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever recollect half the dishes for
grandmama? Soup too! Bless me! I should not be helped so soon, but it
smells most excellent, and I cannot help beginning."
"They aimed at wounding more than Harriet," said he. "Emma, why is it
that they are your enemies?"
He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he
only said,
"I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections."
"Can you trust me with such flatterers?—Does my vain spirit ever tell
me I am wrong?"
"Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.—If one leads you wrong, I
am sure the other tells you of it."
"I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There
is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not: and I
was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a
series of strange blunders!"
"Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all
doing?— Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is
lazy! Every body is asleep!"
She hesitated a moment, and then replied, "With you, if you will ask
me."
"Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we
are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper."
She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that
he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was
to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it.
Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them
all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up for
the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the
great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she had
never less expected to see together—Frank Churchill, with Harriet leaning
on his arm—actually Harriet!—A moment sufficed to convince her that
something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white and
frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.— The iron gates and the front-
door were not twenty yards asunder;—they were all three soon in the hall,
and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away.
A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be
answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but
the suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma
acquainted with the whole.
How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more
courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could not
be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed
by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look,
though not absolutely in word.—More and more frightened, she
immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a
shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.—She was
then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away—but her terror
and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather
surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.
In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and
conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his leaving
Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this
critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk
forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road, a mile or two
beyond Highbury—and happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the
night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore them, he had
been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes: he was
therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the
whole party till almost close to them. The terror which the woman and boy
had been creating in Harriet was then their own portion. He had left them
completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able
to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits
were quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had
thought of no other place.
This was the amount of the whole story,—of his communication and of
Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.— He dared
not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not
another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety
to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the
neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings
that she could utter for her friend and herself.
It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever occurred
before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre,
no alarm of the kind;—and now it had happened to the very person, and at
the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to
rescue her!—It certainly was very extraordinary!—And knowing, as she did,
the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more.
He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just
recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing united
to promise the most interesting consequences. It was not possible that the
occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other.
In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while
Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her
naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility
amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's own account had
been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of
Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take its natural
course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step,
nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no
harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish.
Beyond it she would on no account proceed.
Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of
what had passed,—aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but
she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it
was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who
talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the
place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's ball
seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as
Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising
never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort to him that
many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew
that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss Smith, were coming in
during the rest of the day; and he had the pleasure of returning for answer,
that they were all very indifferent—which, though not exactly true, for she
was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not
interfere with. She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child
of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did
not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.
The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took
themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have walked
again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled
soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:—in
her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still
asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still
tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the
original recital.
CHAPTER IV
A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came
one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting
down and hesitating, thus began:
Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a
seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her
words, for something more than ordinary.
"No—I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued
very much."
She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words Most
precious treasures on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited. Harriet
unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within abundance
of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet
opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton,
Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.
"Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what
passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last times we
ever met in it!—It was but a very few days before I had my sore throat—
just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came— I think the very evening.—
Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and
your recommending court-plaister?— But, as you had none about you, and
knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut
him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and
kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me.
And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it—so I
put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat."
"My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face,
and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.
Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this
relic—I knew nothing of that till this moment—but the cutting the finger,
and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!—
Oh! my sins, my sins!—And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!—One
of my senseless tricks!—I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest
of my life.—Well—(sitting down again)—go on—what else?"
"And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected
it, you did it so naturally."
"And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!"
said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between
wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me!
when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-
plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to
this."
Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of
an old pencil,—the part without any lead.
"This was really his," said Harriet.—"Do not you remember one
morning?—no, I dare say you do not. But one morning—I forget exactly the
day—but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before that evening, he
wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-
beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-
beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there
was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you
lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I
kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted
with it again from that moment."
"I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.— Talking
about spruce-beer.—Oh! yes—Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it,
and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly
remember it.—Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I
have an idea he was standing just here."
"Well, go on."
"Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say—except that
I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see
me do it."
"My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in
treasuring up these things?"
"I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable
look to me. I must get rid of every thing.— There it goes, and there is an
end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton."
She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was
already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had told
no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.—About a fortnight
after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite
undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the
information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of
some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to
do so and so"—and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she
heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry."
Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a
moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,
After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from—I hope
it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"
"I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you
was enough to warm your heart."
Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was
very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its
tendency would be to raise and refine her mind—and it must be saving her
from the danger of degradation.
CHAPTER V
In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon
Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The Eltons
were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use to be made of
their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her grandmother's; and
as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again delayed, and August,
instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely to remain there full two
months longer, provided at least she were able to defeat Mrs. Elton's
activity in her service, and save herself from being hurried into a delightful
situation against her will.
Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had
certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to
dislike him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in his
pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable. Every
thing declared it; his own attentions, his father's hints, his mother-in-law's
guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and
indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many were devoting him to
Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began
to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He could not
understand it; but there were symptoms of intelligence between them—he
thought so at least—symptoms of admiration on his side, which, having
once observed, he could not persuade himself to think entirely void of
meaning, however he might wish to escape any of Emma's errors of
imagination. She was not present when the suspicion first arose. He was
dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons'; and he had seen a
look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of
Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place. When he was again in
their company, he could not help remembering what he had seen; nor could
he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at
twilight,
He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend
his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined
them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like
themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather
threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her
niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield
gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that would be
welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him.
The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty long speech
from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it possible
to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most obliging invitation.
"By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what
became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?"
Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he ever
had any such plan."
"Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago."
"Me! impossible!"
"Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was
certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was
extremely happy about it. It was owing to her persuasion, as she thought
his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must
remember it now?"
"No, sir," replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from
nobody.—Very odd!—I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having
mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all
these particulars—but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it
before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream
of every body at Highbury when I am away—and when I have gone through
my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry."
"It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such
a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you
should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! and his
wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health—just what will
happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. What
an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at others, what
a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that
Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great
dreamer, I think?"
Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to
prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr.
Weston's hint.
"Why, to own the truth," cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain
to be heard the last two minutes, "if I must speak on this subject, there is
no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have—I do not mean to say that
he did not dream it—I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in the
world—but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that there was
such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother,
and the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves—but it was quite a secret,
known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry
was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in
great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't
you remember grandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget
where we had been walking to—very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was
to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother—indeed
I do not know who is not—and she had mentioned it to her in confidence;
she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go
beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I
know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having never
dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am
aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and then I
have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane; I wish I
were. I will answer for it she never betrayed the least thing in the world.
Where is she?—Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry's coming.—
Extraordinary dream, indeed!"
They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss
Bates's in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill's face, where he thought
he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned
to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her shawl. Mr.
Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen waited at the door to let
her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill the determination of
catching her eye—he seemed watching her intently—in vain, however, if it
were so— Jane passed between them into the hall, and looked at neither.
There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must
be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round the
large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and
which none but Emma could have had power to place there and persuade
her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on which two of his
daily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea passed pleasantly, and
nobody seemed in a hurry to move.
"Miss Woodhouse," said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind
him, which he could reach as he sat, "have your nephews taken away their
alphabets—their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it? This is a
sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather as winter than
summer. We had great amusement with those letters one morning. I want to
puzzle you again."
Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table
was quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much
disposed to employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming words
for each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled. The quietness of
the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse, who had often
been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr. Weston had
occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in lamenting,
with tender melancholy, over the departure of the "poor little boys," or in
fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter near him, how
beautifully Emma had written it.
Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight
glance round the table, and applied herself to it. Frank was next to Emma,
Jane opposite to them—and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them all; and
it was his object to see as much as he could, with as little apparent
observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint smile pushed away.
If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and buried from sight,
she should have looked on the table instead of looking just across, for it
was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after every fresh word, and finding out
none, directly took it up, and fell to work. She was sitting by Mr.
Knightley, and turned to him for help. The word was blunder; and as
Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there was a blush on Jane's cheek which
gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with
the dream; but how it could all be, was beyond his comprehension. How
the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep!
He feared there must be some decided involvement. Disingenuousness and
double dealing seemed to meet him at every turn. These letters were but the
vehicle for gallantry and trick. It was a child's play, chosen to conceal a
deeper game on Frank Churchill's part.
With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm
and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a short
word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. He
saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining,
though it was something which she judged it proper to appear to censure;
for she said, "Nonsense! for shame!" He heard Frank Churchill next say,
with a glance towards Jane, "I will give it to her—shall I?"—and as clearly
heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing warmth. "No, no, you must
not; you shall not, indeed."
It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love
without feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly
handed over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of
sedate civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley's excessive curiosity
to know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment
for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to be
Dixon. Jane Fairfax's perception seemed to accompany his; her
comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the
superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was evidently
displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed more deeply
than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, "I did not know that
proper names were allowed," pushed away the letters with even an angry
spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word that could be
offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the attack, and
turned towards her aunt.
"Aye, very true, my dear," cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken
a word—"I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be going
indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking for us.
My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good night."
"Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the
poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the
word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the
one, and so very distressing to the other."
Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the
true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she
was really ashamed of having ever imparted them.
"Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere
joke among ourselves."
He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would
rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in
doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference—fruitless
interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to
declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to
risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather
than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of
neglect in such a cause.
"My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think
you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman
and lady we have been speaking of?"
"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.—
Why do you make a doubt of it?"
"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her,
or that she admired him?"
"Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness—"Never, for the
twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could
it possibly come into your head?"
CHAPTER VI
After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs.
Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of
hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such
importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In
the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted to the other
topics with which for a while the Sucklings' coming had been united, such
as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health seemed every day to
supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs. Weston, whose
happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much increased by the
arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it.
Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal
of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all
wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought at
first;—but a little consideration convinced her that every thing need not be
put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did
not come? They could go there again with them in the autumn. It was
settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was to be such a party
had been long generally known: it had even given the idea of another.
Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found
so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some
fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the chosen only were
to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending,
elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular
eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.
This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not
but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston
that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had
failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that as
Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no
objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great dislike of
Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was
not worth bringing forward again:—it could not be done without a reproof
to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and she found herself
therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would have done
a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would probably expose her
even to the degradation of being said to be of Mrs. Elton's party! Every
feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her outward submission left a
heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable
goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper.
"I am glad you approve of what I have done," said he very comfortably.
"But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without
numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its own
amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not
leave her out."
It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton
was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to
pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing
into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before
the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on, and it
was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were inadequate to
such an attack.
"Is not this most vexations, Knightley?" she cried.—"And such weather
for exploring!—These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What
are we to do?—The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done.
Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring
party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston."
"You had better explore to Donwell," replied Mr. Knightley. "That may
be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are ripening
fast."
If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so,
for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the "Oh! I should like it of
all things," was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was famous for
its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation: but no plea was
necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt the lady, who
only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again and again to
come—much oftener than he doubted—and was extremely gratified by such
a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to
consider it.
"You may depend upon me," said she. "I certainly will come. Name your
day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?"
"I cannot name a day," said he, "till I have spoken to some others whom
I would wish to meet you."
"Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.—I am Lady
Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me."
"I hope you will bring Elton," said he: "but I will not trouble you to give
any other invitations."
"Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you need not be
afraid of delegating power to me. I am no young lady on her preferment.
Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave
it all to me. I will invite your guests."
"Ah! you are an odd creature!" she cried, satisfied to have no one
preferred to herself.—"You are a humourist, and may say what you like.
Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me—Jane and her aunt.—
The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield
family. Don't scruple. I know you are attached to them."
"You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss
Bates in my way home."
"Well—as you please; only don't have a great set out. And, by the bye,
can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?— Pray be
sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect
anything—"
"I have not the least wish for it, I thank you."
"I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and would
spurn any body's assistance."
"I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on
donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my caro sposo walking by. I really
must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I conceive it
to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many resources, it
is not possible for her to be always shut up at home;—and very long walks,
you know—in summer there is dust, and in winter there is dirt."
"You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell
Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey,
however, if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole's. I would wish every
thing to be as much to your taste as possible."
Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He
wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;
and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat
would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the
specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at Donwell,
be tempted away to his misery.
In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to
Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was
settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,—the weather appearing
exactly right.
It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she
was satisfied of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look
around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular
observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must
ever be so interesting to her and all her family.
She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with
the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed the
respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,
characteristic situation, low and sheltered—its ample gardens stretching
down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with all the old
neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight—and its abundance of timber in
rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.—
The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good
deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfortable, and one or
two handsome rooms.—It was just what it ought to be, and it looked what
it was—and Emma felt an increasing respect for it, as the residence of a
family of such true gentility, untainted in blood and understanding.—Some
faults of temper John Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself
unexceptionably. She had given them neither men, nor names, nor places,
that could raise a blush. These were pleasant feelings, and she walked
about and indulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did, and
collect round the strawberry-beds.—The whole party were assembled,
excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from
Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large
bonnet and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering,
accepting, or talking—strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be
thought or spoken of.—"The best fruit in England—every body's favourite—
always wholesome.—These the finest beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to
gather for one's self—the only way of really enjoying them.—Morning
decidedly the best time—never tired—every sort good—hautboy infinitely
superior—no comparison—the others hardly eatable—hautboys very
scarce—Chili preferred—white wood finest flavour of all—price of
strawberries in London—abundance about Bristol—Maple Grove—
cultivation—beds when to be renewed—gardeners thinking exactly
different—no general rule—gardeners never to be put out of their way—
delicious fruit—only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to cherries—
currants more refreshing—only objection to gathering strawberries the
stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it no longer—must go
and sit in the shade."
Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to
overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.— A situation, a
most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received notice of
it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not with Mrs. Suckling, it was
not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it fell short only of
them: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs.
Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove. Delightful, charming, superior,
first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every thing—and Mrs. Elton was wild to
have the offer closed with immediately.—On her side, all was warmth,
energy, and triumph—and she positively refused to take her friend's
negative, though Miss Fairfax continued to assure her that she would not at
present engage in any thing, repeating the same motives which she had
been heard to urge before.— Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to
write an acquiescence by the morrow's post.—How Jane could bear it at all,
was astonishing to Emma.—She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly—
and at last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a removal.—
"Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the gardens—
all the gardens?—She wished to see the whole extent."—The pertinacity of
her friend seemed more than she could bear.
It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered,
dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly followed one
another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which
stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed
the finish of the pleasure grounds.— It led to nothing; nothing but a view at
the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed intended, in
their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to the house, which
never had been there. Disputable, however, as might be the taste of such a
termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the view which closed it
extremely pretty.—The considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the
Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at
half a mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur,
well clothed with wood;—and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed
and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the
river making a close and handsome curve around it.
It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure,
English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being
oppressive.
In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and
towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet
distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and Harriet!—
It was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it.—There had been a
time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and turned from her
with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant conversation. There had
been a time also when Emma would have been sorry to see Harriet in a spot
so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now she feared it not. It might
be safely viewed with all its appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich
pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke
ascending.—She joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in
talking than in looking around. He was giving Harriet information as to
modes of agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile which seemed to say,
"These are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects,
without being suspected of introducing Robert Martin."—She did not
suspect him. It was too old a story.—Robert Martin had probably ceased to
think of Harriet.—They took a few turns together along the walk.—The
shade was most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the
day.
The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;—and
they were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs.
Weston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself
uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing
that he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to
coming, with more than common certainty. "His aunt was so much better,
that he had not a doubt of getting over to them."—Mrs. Churchill's state,
however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such sudden
variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable
dependence—and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say,
that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented
coming.— Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration;
she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.
The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to
see what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as
far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at any
rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—Mr.
Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part of
the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by him,
stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs.
Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and
variety which her spirits seemed to need.
Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse's
entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,
shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been
prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness
had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused.
Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he would shew
them all to Emma;—fortunate in having no other resemblance to a child,
than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant,
and methodical.—Before this second looking over was begun, however,
Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few moments' free observation
of the entrance and ground-plot of the house—and was hardly there, when
Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden, and with a look
of escape.— Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a
start at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of.
"But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my father's
servant go with you.—Let me order the carriage. It can be round in five
minutes."
She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, "That
can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the
carriage. The heat even would be danger.—You are fatigued already."
Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into
her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched her
safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was grateful—and her
parting words, "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being sometimes
alone!"—seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and to describe
somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her, even towards
some of those who loved her best.
"Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!" said Emma, as she turned back
into the hall again. "I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of
their just horrors, the more I shall like you."
Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only
accomplished some views of St. Mark's Place, Venice, when Frank Churchill
entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had forgotten to
think of him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston would be at
ease. The black mare was blameless; they were right who had named Mrs.
Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a temporary increase of
illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had lasted some hours—and he had
quite given up every thought of coming, till very late;—and had he known
how hot a ride he should have, and how late, with all his hurry, he must
be, he believed he should not have come at all. The heat was excessive; he
had never suffered any thing like it—almost wished he had staid at home—
nothing killed him like heat—he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but
heat was intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance
from the slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse's fire, looking very deplorable.
Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill's
state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of
humour. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might
be his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often
the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some
refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the dining-room—
and she humanely pointed out the door.
"No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him
hotter." In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and
muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all her
attention to her father, saying in secret—
"I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man
who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet's sweet easy temper
will not mind it."
He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and
came back all the better—grown quite cool—and, with good manners, like
himself—able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late. He
was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and, at last,
made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking over views in
Swisserland.
"As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad," said he. "I shall never
be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my sketches,
some time or other, to look at—or my tour to read—or my poem. I shall do
something to expose myself."
"You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few
hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?"
"I sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do not
look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in every
thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate person."
"You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go
and eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice of
cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on
a par with the rest of us."
"No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure."
"We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join us. It is not
Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want of a
change. You will stay, and go with us?"
"But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of you all
there without me."
"These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your
own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more."
The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.
With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others took it
very composedly; but there was a very general distress and disturbance on
Miss Fairfax's disappearance being explained. That it was time for every
body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short final arrangement for
the next day's scheme, they parted. Frank Churchill's little inclination to
exclude himself increased so much, that his last words to Emma were,
She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from
Richmond was to take him back before the following evening.
CHAPTER VII
They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward
circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in
favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating safely
between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good time.
Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with the
Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr.
Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.
Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body had
a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount of the day
there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of
union, which could not be got over. They separated too much into parties.
The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of Miss Bates and
Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston
tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed at first an
accidental division, but it never materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton,
indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable as they could;
but during the two whole hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a
principle of separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine
prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.
At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank
Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing—looked
without seeing—admired without intelligence—listened without knowing
what she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet should
be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.
When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,
for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object.
Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her. To
amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared for—and
Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay and easy too,
and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission to be gallant,
which she had ever given in the first and most animating period of their
acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation, meant nothing,
though in the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an
appearance as no English word but flirtation could very well describe. "Mr.
Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively." They
were laying themselves open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off
in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that
Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because
she felt less happy than she had expected. She laughed because she was
disappointed; and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought
them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely
judicious, they were not winning back her heart. She still intended him for
her friend.
"How much I am obliged to you," said he, "for telling me to come to-
day!— If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all the
happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again."
"Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that
you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you
deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to
come."
"Don't say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me."
"Your command?—Yes."
"Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,
somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own
management; but to-day you are got back again—and as I cannot be always
with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command rather
than mine."
"Three o'clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you
first in February."
"Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all
thinking of?"
"It is a sort of thing," cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, "which I should not
have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though, perhaps, as the
Chaperon of the party— I never was in any circle—exploring parties—young
ladies—married women—"
"Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed—quite unheard of—
but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every body
knows what is due to you."
"It will not do," whispered Frank to Emma; "they are most of them
affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen—I
am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of
knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires
something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are
seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very
entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one
thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two things
moderately clever—or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to
laugh heartily at them all."
"Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy.
'Three things very dull indeed.' That will just do for me, you know. I shall
be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?
(looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body's
assent)—Do not you all think I shall?"
"Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me—but you will be
limited as to number—only three at once."
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not
immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not
anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.
"I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my best.
I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?"
"No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr.
Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear
it."
"I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much
a matter of fact, but here it is.—What two letters of the alphabet are there,
that express perfection?"
"Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never
guess.—I will tell you.—M. and A.—Em-ma.—Do you understand?"
"This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston
has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body
else. Perfection should not have come quite so soon."
"Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "I really
cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic
once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I
knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!— You know who I mean
(nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very well at Christmas,
when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion,
when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must
excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at every body's
service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my
own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to
hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E.,
Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say—not one of us.
"Yes, yes, pray pass me," added her husband, with a sort of sneering
consciousness; "I have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse,
or any other young lady. An old married man—quite good for nothing. Shall
we walk, Augusta?"
Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off.
"Happy couple!" said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of
hearing:—"How well they suit one another!—Very lucky—marrying as they
did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!—They only knew
each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!—for as to any
real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public place, can
give—it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is only by seeing
women in their own homes, among their own set, just as they always are,
that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and
luck—and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed
himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!"
Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own
confederates, spoke now.
"You were speaking," said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.
"She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else. I
shall go abroad for a couple of years—and when I return, I shall come to
you for my wife. Remember."
"Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?"
"If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was
ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall soon
overtake her. There she is—no, that's somebody else. That's one of the
ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.— Well, I declare—"
While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He
looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,
"Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a
privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it. I
cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be so
unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to a
woman of her character, age, and situation?— Emma, I had not thought it
possible."
"Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—Nobody could have helped
it. It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me."
"I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it
since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it—with what candour
and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your
forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for ever
receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be so
irksome."
"Oh!" cried Emma, "I know there is not a better creature in the world:
but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most
unfortunately blended in her."
"They are blended," said he, "I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,
I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the
good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity
to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner.
Were she your equal in situation—but, Emma, consider how far this is from
being the case. She is poor; she has sunk from the comforts she was born
to; and, if she live to old age, must probably sink more. Her situation
should secure your compassion. It was badly done, indeed! You, whom she
had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period
when her notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits,
and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her—and before her
niece, too—and before others, many of whom (certainly some,) would be
entirely guided by your treatment of her.—This is not pleasant to you,
Emma—and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will,—I will tell
you truths while I can; satisfied with proving myself your friend by very
faithful counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do me
greater justice than you can do now."
While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was
ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had
misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her tongue
motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself,
mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and, on
entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome—then reproaching
herself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in
apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a
difference; but it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses
were in motion. She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with
what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill, and every
thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could have been
expressed—almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so
agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was most
forcibly struck. The truth of this representation there was no denying. She
felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss
Bates! How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one
she valued! And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of
gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!
Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to
feel it more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary
to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself, fagged,
and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running down her
cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble to check
them, extraordinary as they were.
CHAPTER VIII
She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early,
that nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she
might see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while
she were paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be ashamed
of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers. Her eyes were
towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.
"The ladies were all at home." She had never rejoiced at the sound
before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs, with
any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of deriving it,
except in subsequent ridicule.
There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.
She heard Miss Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the
maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a
moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed
both escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of,
looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard
Miss Bates saying, "Well, my dear, I shall say you are laid down upon the
bed, and I am sure you are ill enough."
Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not
quite understand what was going on.
"I am afraid Jane is not very well," said she, "but I do not know; they
tell me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently, Miss
Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am very
little able—Have you a chair, ma'am? Do you sit where you like? I am sure
she will be here presently."
Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment's fear of Miss
Bates keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came—"Very happy and
obliged"—but Emma's conscience told her that there was not the same
cheerful volubility as before—less ease of look and manner. A very friendly
inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a return of old
feelings. The touch seemed immediate.
"Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!—I suppose you have heard—
and are come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in
me—(twinkling away a tear or two)—but it will be very trying for us to part
with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful headache just
now, writing all the morning:—such long letters, you know, to be written to
Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. 'My dear,' said I, 'you will blind
yourself'—for tears were in her eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one
cannot wonder. It is a great change; and though she is amazingly
fortunate—such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met
with on first going out—do not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for
such surprising good fortune—(again dispersing her tears)—but, poor dear
soul! if you were to see what a headache she has. When one is in great
pain, you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is
as low as possible. To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and
happy she is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not
coming to you—she is not able—she is gone into her own room—I want her
to lie down upon the bed. 'My dear,' said I, 'I shall say you are laid down
upon the bed:' but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But,
now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She
will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your
kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door—I was quite
ashamed—but somehow there was a little bustle—for it so happened that
we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not
know any body was coming. 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' said I, 'depend upon it.
Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,' said she, 'it must be borne some
time or other, and it may as well be now.' But then Patty came in, and said
it was you. 'Oh!' said I, 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see
her.'— 'I can see nobody,' said she; and up she got, and would go away; and
that was what made us keep you waiting—and extremely sorry and
ashamed we were. 'If you must go, my dear,' said I, 'you must, and I will
say you are laid down upon the bed.'"
Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing
kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a
cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity;
and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past,
obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on seeing Mrs.
Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She
spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude—sincerely wishing that
the circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually
determined on, might be as much for Miss Fairfax's advantage and comfort
as possible. "It must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it was
to be delayed till Colonel Campbell's return."
"So very kind!" replied Miss Bates. "But you are always kind."
"Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax
owes—"
"Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She
would not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, 'No;' for when Jane
first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were
at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against
accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly as you say,
she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel Campbell's
return, and nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement at
present—and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over again—and I am sure I
had no more idea that she would change her mind!—but that good Mrs.
Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is not
every body that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, and
refuse to take Jane's answer; but she positively declared she would not write
any such denial yesterday, as Jane wished her; she would wait—and, sure
enough, yesterday evening it was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a
surprize to me! I had not the least idea!—Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and
told her at once, that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs.
Smallridge's situation, she had come to the resolution of accepting it.—I did
not know a word of it till it was all settled."
"You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?"
"Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon
the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. 'You must all
spend your evening with us,' said she—'I positively must have you all
come.'"
"No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I
thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let him
off, he did not;—but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and a very
agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss Woodhouse,
one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed rather fagged
after the morning's party. Even pleasure, you know, is fatiguing—and I
cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it.
However, I shall always think it a very pleasant party, and feel extremely
obliged to the kind friends who included me in it."
"Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been
making up her mind the whole day?"
"Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her
friends—but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is
possible—I mean, as to the character and manners of the family."
"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing in
the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and Bragges,
there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal and elegant, in
all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful woman!—
A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove—and as to the children,
except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there are not such elegant
sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with such regard and
kindness!— It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure.—And her
salary!— I really cannot venture to name her salary to you, Miss
Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe
that so much could be given to a young person like Jane."
"Ah! madam," cried Emma, "if other children are at all like what I
remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of
what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly
earned."
"Very soon, very soon, indeed; that's the worst of it. Within a fortnight.
Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not know how to
bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and say, Come ma'am,
do not let us think about it any more."
"Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and Mrs.
Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their return?"
"Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a situation as
she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so astonished when she
first told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton
at the same moment came congratulating me upon it! It was before tea—
stay—no, it could not be before tea, because we were just going to cards—
and yet it was before tea, because I remember thinking—Oh! no, now I
recollect, now I have it; something happened before tea, but not that. Mr.
Elton was called out of the room before tea, old John Abdy's son wanted to
speak with him. Poor old John, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk
to my poor father twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-
ridden, and very poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints— I must go
and see him to-day; and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And
poor John's son came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he is
very well to do himself, you know, being head man at the Crown, ostler,
and every thing of that sort, but still he cannot keep his father without
some help; and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler
had been telling him, and then it came out about the chaise having been
sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to Richmond. That was what
happened before tea. It was after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton."
Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this
circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she
could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill's going,
she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.
What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the
accumulation of the ostler's own knowledge, and the knowledge of the
servants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond
soon after the return of the party from Box Hill—which messenger,
however, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had
sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable
account of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming back
beyond the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having
resolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse seeming
to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the Crown
chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy going a
good pace, and driving very steady.
There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it caught
Emma's attention only as it united with the subject which already engaged
her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill's importance in the world,
and Jane Fairfax's, struck her; one was every thing, the other nothing—and
she sat musing on the difference of woman's destiny, and quite unconscious
on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss Bates's saying,
"Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to become
of that?—Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now.— 'You must
go,' said she. 'You and I must part. You will have no business here.—Let it
stay, however,' said she; 'give it houseroom till Colonel Campbell comes
back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for me; he will help me out
of all my difficulties.'— And to this day, I do believe, she knows not
whether it was his present or his daughter's."
"I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare,
and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend a
few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say, besides
the 'love,' which nobody carries?"
Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself.
Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends
again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going—her father began
his inquiries.
"Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?—And how did you find
my worthy old friend and her daughter?—I dare say they must have been
very much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs.
and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so
attentive to them!"
Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile,
and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr. Knightley.—
It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if
his eyes received the truth from her's, and all that had passed of good in
her feelings were at once caught and honoured.— He looked at her with a
glow of regard. She was warmly gratified—and in another moment still
more so, by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his
part.—He took her hand;—whether she had not herself made the first
motion, she could not say—she might, perhaps, have rather offered it—but
he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying it to
his lips—when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly let it go.—Why he
should feel such a scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all
but done, she could not perceive.—He would have judged better, she
thought, if he had not stopped.—The intention, however, was indubitable;
and whether it was that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or
however else it happened, but she thought nothing became him more.— It
was with him, of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.— She could not but
recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.—He
left them immediately afterwards—gone in a moment. He always moved
with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory,
but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.
Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished
she had left her ten minutes earlier;—it would have been a great pleasure to
talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley.— Neither would she
regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how
much his visit would be enjoyed—but it might have happened at a better
time—and to have had longer notice of it, would have been pleasanter.—
They parted thorough friends, however; she could not be deceived as to the
meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished gallantry;—it was all done
to assure her that she had fully recovered his good opinion.—He had been
sitting with them half an hour, she found. It was a pity that she had not
come back earlier!
It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of
gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the
surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she
would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to
folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be
disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs.
Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of
with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully justified. She
had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event acquitted her
of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints.
"Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal:
more than any body had ever supposed—and continual pain would try the
temper. It was a sad event—a great shock—with all her faults, what would
Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill's loss would be dreadful
indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it."— Even Mr. Weston shook
his head, and looked solemn, and said, "Ah! poor woman, who would have
thought it!" and resolved, that his mourning should be as handsome as
possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hems with
a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it would affect
Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very early
speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her
husband—her mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion—
and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by
the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment all the possible
good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to
encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody;
an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his nephew. All
that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form the
attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel no
certainty of its being already formed.
Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-
command. What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing.
Emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened
character, and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its
maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual
forbearance.
Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was
impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed
indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best
counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer,
therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's, in the hope
that Jane would be induced to join her—but it would not do;—Miss Bates
came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most
earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest service—and every
thing that message could do was tried—but all in vain. Miss Bates was
obliged to return without success; Jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere
proposal of going out seemed to make her worse.—Emma wished she could
have seen her, and tried her own powers; but, almost before she could hint
the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on no
account to let Miss Woodhouse in. "Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear
Jane could not bear to see any body—any body at all— Mrs. Elton, indeed,
could not be denied—and Mrs. Cole had made such a point—and Mrs.
Perry had said so much—but, except them, Jane would really see nobody."
Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys,
and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could
she feel any right of preference herself—she submitted, therefore, and only
questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and diet, which she
longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates was very
unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:— Mr.
Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they could command
(and never had any body such good neighbours) was distasteful.
When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen
wandering about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the
afternoon of the very day on which she had, under the plea of being
unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the
carriage, she could have no doubt—putting every thing together—that Jane
was resolved to receive no kindness from her. She was sorry, very sorry.
Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from
this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and inequality of
powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little credit for proper
feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but she had the consolation
of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to
herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of
assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart, he would
not, on this occasion, have found any thing to reprove.
CHAPTER X
One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease, Emma was
called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who "could not stay five minutes, and
wanted particularly to speak with her."— He met her at the parlour-door,
and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk it
immediately, to say, unheard by her father,
"No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would have ordered the
carriage, and come to you, but she must see you alone, and that you
know—(nodding towards her father)—Humph!—Can you come?"
"Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You will know it all in
time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!"
To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma.
Something really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her
friend was well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her
father, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon
out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.
"Now,"—said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,—
"now Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened."
"Break it to me," cried Emma, standing still with terror.— "Good God!—
Mr. Weston, tell me at once.—Something has happened in Brunswick
Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is."
"Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say upon your honour,
that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!—What can be
to be broke to me, that does not relate to one of that family?"
"Upon my honour," said he very seriously, "it does not. It is not in the
smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley."
"I was wrong," he continued, "in talking of its being broke to you. I
should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you—it
concerns only myself,—that is, we hope.—Humph!—In short, my dear
Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't say that it is
not a disagreeable business—but things might be much worse.—If we walk
fast, we shall soon be at Randalls."
Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She
asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and
that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money
concern—something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the
circumstances of the family,—something which the late event at Richmond
had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural
children, perhaps—and poor Frank cut off!— This, though very
undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more than
an animating curiosity.
For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more
guarded and demure,
"Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did."
"You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;"
(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has
been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is
impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a
subject,—to announce an attachment—"
"Jane Fairfax!—Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?"
"You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her
eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to
recover— "You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a
solemn engagement between them ever since October—formed at
Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it
but themselves—neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.— It is so
wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost
incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.— I thought I knew him."
Emma scarcely heard what was said.—Her mind was divided between
two ideas—her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and
poor Harriet;—and for some time she could only exclaim, and require
confirmation, repeated confirmation.
Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, "I will not pretend not to
understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that
no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive
of."
Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was
as steady as her words.
"That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present
perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you, that there was a
period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I
was very much disposed to be attached to him—nay, was attached—and
how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did
cease. I have really for some time past, for at least these three months,
cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the
simple truth."
Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find
utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than
any thing else in the world could do.
"Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself," said she. "On
this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you might
be attached to each other—and we were persuaded that it was so.—
Imagine what we have been feeling on your account."
"I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful
wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit him, Mrs. Weston; and
I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to come
among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so very
disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he certainly did—
to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he
certainly did—while he really belonged to another?—How could he tell
what mischief he might be doing?— How could he tell that he might not be
making me in love with him?—very wrong, very wrong indeed."
"And how could she bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! to
look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman, before
her face, and not resent it.—That is a degree of placidity, which I can
neither comprehend nor respect."
"He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit
him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him—or at
least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.— Till yesterday, I
know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do
not know how, but by some letter or message—and it was the discovery of
what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined him to
come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on his
kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of concealment
that had been carrying on so long."
"I am to hear from him soon," continued Mrs. Weston. "He told me at
parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which seemed
to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let us wait,
therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It may make
many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be understood.
Don't let us be severe, don't let us be in a hurry to condemn him. Let us
have patience. I must love him; and now that I am satisfied on one point,
the one material point, I am sincerely anxious for its all turning out well,
and ready to hope that it may. They must both have suffered a great deal
under such a system of secresy and concealment."
"His sufferings," replied Emma dryly, "do not appear to have done him
much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?"
"Ah!" thought Emma, "he would have done as much for Harriet."
"This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this
morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates's, I fancy, some time—and
then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle, to
whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you, he could
stay with us but a quarter of an hour.— He was very much agitated—very
much, indeed—to a degree that made him appear quite a different creature
from any thing I had ever seen him before.—In addition to all the rest,
there had been the shock of finding her so very unwell, which he had had
no previous suspicion of— and there was every appearance of his having
been feeling a great deal."
"And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such
perfect secresy?—The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of the
engagement?"
Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.
"None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being
in the world but their two selves."
"Well," said Emma, "I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the
idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a very
abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of hypocrisy
and deceit,—espionage, and treachery?— To come among us with
professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to judge
us all!—Here have we been, the whole winter and spring, completely
duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with
two people in the midst of us who may have been carrying round,
comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were
never meant for both to hear.—They must take the consequence, if they
have heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable!"
"I am quite easy on that head," replied Mrs. Weston. "I am very sure
that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might not
have heard."
"You are in luck.—Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you
imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady."
"Much, indeed!" cried Emma feelingly. "If a woman can ever be excused
for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane Fairfax's.—Of such,
one may almost say, that 'the world is not their's, nor the world's law.'"
"A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word! This was
a device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent of
guessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half your
property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of condolence, it
turns out to be one of congratulation.—I congratulate you, Mr. Weston,
with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of the most lovely and
accomplished young women in England for your daughter."
A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was
as right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits was
immediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he shook her
heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in a manner
to prove, that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think the
engagement no very bad thing. His companions suggested only what could
palliate imprudence, or smooth objections; and by the time they had talked
it all over together, and he had talked it all over again with Emma, in their
walk back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly reconciled, and not far
from thinking it the very best thing that Frank could possibly have done.
CHAPTER XI
She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry
with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.— As for Jane
Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present solicitude
on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no longer be
unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of course,
the same origin, must be equally under cure.—Her days of insignificance
and evil were over.—She would soon be well, and happy, and
prosperous.— Emma could now imagine why her own attentions had been
slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No doubt it had
been from jealousy.—In Jane's eyes she had been a rival; and well might
any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed. An airing in
the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrowroot from the
Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She understood it all; and as
far as her mind could disengage itself from the injustice and selfishness of
angry feelings, she acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither
elevation nor happiness beyond her desert. But poor Harriet was such an
engrossing charge! There was little sympathy to be spared for any body
else. Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be
more severe than the first. Considering the very superior claims of the
object, it ought; and judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's
mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would.— She must
communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon as possible. An
injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston's parting words. "For the
present, the whole affair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had
made a point of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently
lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum."— Emma
had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty.
In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous,
that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to
perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself.
The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was
now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick on
hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs.
Weston felt when she was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the
disclosure bear an equal resemblance!— But of that, unfortunately, there
could be no chance.
"Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room—
"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"
"What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or
voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.
"About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!—you
need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself.
I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I
should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said you
knew it."
"Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill
are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one another
this long while. How very odd!"
"Had you any idea," cried Harriet, "of his being in love with her?—You,
perhaps, might.—You (blushing as she spoke) who can see into every body's
heart; but nobody else—"
"Upon my word," said Emma, "I begin to doubt my having any such
talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached
to another woman at the very time that I was—tacitly, if not openly—
encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?—I never had the
slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank Churchill's having
the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very sure that if I had, I
should have cautioned you accordingly."
"Me!" cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. "Why should you caution
me?—You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill."
She could not speak another word.—Her voice was lost; and she sat
down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.
Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from
her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a
voice nearly as agitated as Emma's.
"I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you could have
misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him—but considering
how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought
it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank
Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the
company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr.
Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have
been so mistaken, is amazing!—I am sure, but for believing that you
entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should
have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think
of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had
happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were
your very words);— I should not have dared to give way to—I should not
have thought it possible—But if you, who had been always acquainted with
him—"
"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else—and so I
thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."
"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you
then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost
assert that you had named Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr.
Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was
spoken of."
"Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was
thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies—it
was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with some elevation) I was
thinking of a much more precious circumstance—of Mr. Knightley's coming
and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and
when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action;
that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which
made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon
earth."
"You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me?
At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the
other had been the person; and now—it is possible—"
"I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel
a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must
think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I
hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing—that if—strange as it may
appear—. But you know they were your own words, that more wonderful
things had happened, matches of greater disparity had taken place than
between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a
thing even as this, may have occurred before—and if I should be so
fortunate, beyond expression, as to—if Mr. Knightley should really—if he
does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set
yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too
good for that, I am sure."
"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—"I must say that I
have."
Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating,
in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for
making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening
to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched—she admitted—she
acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet
should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was
the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return?
It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must
marry no one but herself!
Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same
few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her
before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate,
how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What
blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force,
and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of
respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits—some concern
for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet—(there
would be no need of compassion to the girl who believed herself loved by
Mr. Knightley—but justice required that she should not be made unhappy
by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther
with calmness, with even apparent kindness.—For her own advantage
indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be
enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and
interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained—or to
deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her
right.— Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she
turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the
conversation; for as to the subject which had first introduced it, the
wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.— Neither of
them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves.
Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very
glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge,
and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give
the history of her hopes with great, though trembling delight.—Emma's
tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than
Harriet's, but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind
was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such a burst of
threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must
create.— She listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward
patience, to Harriet's detail.—Methodical, or well arranged, or very well
delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated
from all the feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink
her spirit—especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own
memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley's most improved opinion of
Harriet.
On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a
little reflection, venture the following question. "Might he not?—Is not it
possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of your
affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin—he might have Mr. Martin's
interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit.
When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss
Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.
"I never should have presumed to think of it at first," said she, "but for
you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour be the rule
of mine—and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may deserve him; and
that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so very wonderful."
The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter feelings,
made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma's side, to enable her to say on
reply,
"Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the last
man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his
feeling for her more than he really does."
The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her
thoughts.—She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had rushed
on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a fresh
surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to her.—How to
understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had been thus
practising on herself, and living under!—The blunders, the blindness of her
own head and heart!—she sat still, she walked about, she tried her own
room, she tried the shrubbery—in every place, every posture, she perceived
that she had acted most weakly; that she had been imposed on by others in
a most mortifying degree; that she had been imposing on herself in a degree
yet more mortifying; that she was wretched, and should probably find this
day but the beginning of wretchedness.
How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling
declared him now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun?—
When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank
Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?—She looked back; she
compared the two—compared them, as they had always stood in her
estimation, from the time of the latter's becoming known to her— and as
they must at any time have been compared by her, had it—oh! had it, by
any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.—She saw
that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr. Knightley
as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had not been infinitely
the most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself, in fancying, in acting to
the contrary, she had been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her
own heart—and, in short, that she had never really cared for Frank
Churchill at all!
This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was the
knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she reached;
and without being long in reaching it.— She was most sorrowfully
indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed to her—her
affection for Mr. Knightley.— Every other part of her mind was disgusting.
With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of every
body's feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange every
body's destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken; and she
had not quite done nothing—for she had done mischief. She had brought
evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr. Knightley.—
Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on her must rest all
the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his attachment, she must
believe to be produced only by a consciousness of Harriet's;—and even
were this not the case, he would never have known Harriet at all but for
her folly.
Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she
ought, and where he had told her she ought!—Had she not, with a folly
which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the
unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and
respectable in the line of life to which she ought to belong—all would have
been safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.
How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts
to Mr. Knightley!—How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of such
a man till actually assured of it!— But Harriet was less humble, had fewer
scruples than formerly.— Her inferiority, whether of mind or situation,
seemed little felt.— She had seemed more sensible of Mr. Elton's being to
stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr. Knightley's.— Alas! was
not that her own doing too? Who had been at pains to give Harriet notions
of self-consequence but herself?—Who but herself had taught her, that she
was to elevate herself if possible, and that her claims were great to a high
worldly establishment?— If Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain,
it was her doing too.
CHAPTER XII
Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known
how much of her happiness depended on being first with Mr. Knightley,
first in interest and affection.—Satisfied that it was so, and feeling it her
due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the dread of being
supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had been.—Long, very
long, she felt she had been first; for, having no female connexions of his
own, there had been only Isabella whose claims could be compared with
hers, and she had always known exactly how far he loved and esteemed
Isabella. She had herself been first with him for many years past. She had
not deserved it; she had often been negligent or perverse, slighting his
advice, or even wilfully opposing him, insensible of half his merits, and
quarrelling with him because he would not acknowledge her false and
insolent estimate of her own—but still, from family attachment and habit,
and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved her, and watched over her
from a girl, with an endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing
right, which no other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults,
she knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?— When the
suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presented
themselves, she could not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might
think herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately
loved by Mr. Knightley. She could not. She could not flatter herself with
any idea of blindness in his attachment to her. She had received a very
recent proof of its impartiality.— How shocked had he been by her
behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed
himself to her on the subject!—Not too strongly for the offence—but far, far
too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice and clear-
sighted goodwill.— She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope,
that he could have that sort of affection for herself which was now in
question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one, at times much
stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be overrating his
regard for her.—Wish it she must, for his sake—be the consequence nothing
to herself, but his remaining single all his life. Could she be secure of that,
indeed, of his never marrying at all, she believed she should be perfectly
satisfied.—Let him but continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her
father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield
lose none of their precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and
her peace would be fully secured.—Marriage, in fact, would not do for her.
It would be incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what
she felt for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She would
not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.
It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she
hoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least be
able to ascertain what the chances for it were.—She should see them
henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had
hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know
how to admit that she could be blinded here.— He was expected back every
day. The power of observation would be soon given—frightfully soon it
appeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she
resolved against seeing Harriet.— It would do neither of them good, it
would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.—She was resolved
not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had no authority
for opposing Harriet's confidence. To talk would be only to irritate.—She
wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to beg that she would not, at
present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her conviction, that all
farther confidential discussion of one topic had better be avoided; and
hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass before they met again,
except in the company of others—she objected only to a tete-a-tete—they
might be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversation of
yesterday.—Harriet submitted, and approved, and was grateful.
This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's
thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them, sleeping
or waking, the last twenty-four hours—Mrs. Weston, who had been calling
on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way home, almost as
much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to relate all the particulars
of so interesting an interview.
Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates's, and gone through his
share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then
induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with much
more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an
hour spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour, with all the encumbrance of awkward
feelings, could have afforded.
A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her
friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal of
agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all at
present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer
this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill could
be reconciled to the engagement's becoming known; as, considering every
thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to
reports:—but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was extremely
anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did
not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it; or if it were, that it
would be of any consequence; for "such things," he observed, "always got
about." Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for
saying so. They had gone, in short—and very great had been the evident
distress and confusion of the lady. She had hardly been able to speak a
word, and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering
from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and
the rapturous delight of her daughter—who proved even too joyous to talk
as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were
both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every
sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of
themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax's
recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an
airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but, on being pressed had
yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle
encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to
converse on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious
silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude
she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily
open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a
good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs.
Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to
her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long
been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject.
"On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so
many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic. This was one of
her expressions. 'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I
have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known
the blessing of one tranquil hour:'—and the quivering lip, Emma, which
uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart."
"Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having
consented to a private engagement?"
"Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to
blame herself. 'The consequence,' said she, 'has been a state of perpetual
suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that
misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I
never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right;
and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am
now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.' 'Do not
imagine, madam,' she continued, 'that I was taught wrong. Do not let any
reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me
up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the
excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread
making the story known to Colonel Campbell.'"
"Poor girl!" said Emma again. "She loves him then excessively, I
suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led to
form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her judgment."
"On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably
had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the
misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural
consequence of the evil she had involved herself in," she said, "was that of
making her unreasonable. The consciousness of having done amiss, had
exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable
to a degree that must have been—that had been—hard for him to bear. 'I
did not make the allowances,' said she, 'which I ought to have done, for his
temper and spirits—his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness
of disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, I am sure,
have been as constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.' She then
began to speak of you, and of the great kindness you had shewn her during
her illness; and with a blush which shewed me how it was all connected,
desired me, whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you—I could not
thank you too much—for every wish and every endeavour to do her good.
She was sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgment
from herself."
"If I did not know her to be happy now," said Emma, seriously, "which,
in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she must
be, I could not bear these thanks;—for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there were an
account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss Fairfax!—Well
(checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this is all to be forgotten.
You are very kind to bring me these interesting particulars. They shew her
to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is very good—I hope she will be
very happy. It is fit that the fortune should be on his side, for I think the
merit will be all on hers."
Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She
thought well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she
loved him very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked
with a great deal of reason, and at least equal affection—but she had too
much to urge for Emma's attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square
or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston
ended with, "We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you
know, but I hope it will soon come," she was obliged to pause before she
answered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could at all
recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for.
The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield.
The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in, and
nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was
despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights
the longer visible.
The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than
herself; and Mrs. Weston's heart and time would be occupied by it. They
should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband also.—Frank
Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss Fairfax, it was
reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury. They
would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe. All that were
good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were
to be added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational society within
their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening
comfort!— No longer walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his
own home for their's!—How was it to be endured? And if he were to be lost
to them for Harriet's sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding
in Harriet's society all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the
first, the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the best
blessings of existence; what could be increasing Emma's wretchedness but
the reflection never far distant from her mind, that it had been all her own
work?
When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from a
start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a few
seconds—and the only source whence any thing like consolation or
composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better
conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might be
the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it would yet
find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and leave her less to
regret when it were gone.
CHAPTER XIII
The weather continued much the same all the following morning; and
the same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at
Hartfield—but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a softer
quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was summer
again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, Emma resolved
to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the exquisite sight, smell,
sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after a storm, been more
attractive to her. She longed for the serenity they might gradually
introduce; and on Mr. Perry's coming in soon after dinner, with a
disengaged hour to give her father, she lost no time ill hurrying into the
shrubbery.—There, with spirits freshened, and thoughts a little relieved,
she had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr. Knightley passing through
the garden door, and coming towards her.—It was the first intimation of
his being returned from London. She had been thinking of him the moment
before, as unquestionably sixteen miles distant.—There was time only for
the quickest arrangement of mind. She must be collected and calm. In half
a minute they were together. The "How d'ye do's" were quiet and
constrained on each side. She asked after their mutual friends; they were
all well.—When had he left them?—Only that morning. He must have had a
wet ride.—Yes.—He meant to walk with her, she found. "He had just
looked into the dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred
being out of doors."—She thought he neither looked nor spoke cheerfully;
and the first possible cause for it, suggested by her fears, was, that he had
perhaps been communicating his plans to his brother, and was pained by
the manner in which they had been received.
They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking
at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to give.
And this belief produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to speak to her,
of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for encouragement to
begin.—She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the way to any such
subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could not bear this silence. With
him it was most unnatural. She considered—resolved—and, trying to smile,
began—
"You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather
surprize you."
"Have I?" said he quietly, and looking at her; "of what nature?"
"If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that
already."
"I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning,
and at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened."
Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more
composure,
"You probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have
had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten that you once tried to give me a
caution.—I wish I had attended to it—but—(with a sinking voice and a
heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness."
For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of
having excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn within
his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of
great sensibility, speaking low,
Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the
flutter of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,
"You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must set you right.—
I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was
going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of,
and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well
lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret
that I was not in the secret earlier."
"Mr. Knightley," said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused— "I
am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your
error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I have
as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been at all
attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural for a
woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.— But I never have."
"I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was tempted by his
attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.— An old story,
probably—a common case—and no more than has happened to hundreds of
my sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up
as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation. He
was the son of Mr. Weston—he was continually here—I always found him
very pleasant—and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the causes
ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity was flattered,
and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—for some time, indeed—I
have had no idea of their meaning any thing.—I thought them a habit, a
trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side. He has imposed on
me, but he has not injured me. I have never been attached to him. And now
I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He never wished to attach me. It
was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with another.—It was his
object to blind all about him; and no one, I am sure, could be more
effectually blinded than myself—except that I was not blinded—that it was
my good fortune—that, in short, I was somehow or other safe from him."
She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to say that her
conduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as she could
judge, deep in thought. At last, and tolerably in his usual tone, he said,
"I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.—I can suppose,
however, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has
been but trifling.—And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he may
yet turn out well.—With such a woman he has a chance.—I have no motive
for wishing him ill—and for her sake, whose happiness will be involved in
his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him well."
"I have no doubt of their being happy together," said Emma; "I believe
them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached."
"He is a most fortunate man!" returned Mr. Knightley, with energy. "So
early in life—at three-and-twenty—a period when, if a man chuses a wife,
he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a prize!
What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has before him!—
Assured of the love of such a woman—the disinterested love, for Jane
Fairfax's character vouches for her disinterestedness; every thing in his
favour,—equality of situation—I mean, as far as regards society, and all the
habits and manners that are important; equality in every point but one—
and that one, since the purity of her heart is not to be doubted, such as
must increase his felicity, for it will be his to bestow the only advantages
she wants.—A man would always wish to give a woman a better home than
the one he takes her from; and he who can do it, where there is no doubt of
her regard, must, I think, be the happiest of mortals.—Frank Churchill is,
indeed, the favourite of fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.—He
meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot
even weary her by negligent treatment—and had he and all his family
sought round the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have
found her superior.—His aunt is in the way.—His aunt dies.—He has only
to speak.—His friends are eager to promote his happiness.— He had used
every body ill—and they are all delighted to forgive him.— He is a
fortunate man indeed!"
"You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You are determined, I
see, to have no curiosity.—You are wise—but I cannot be wise. Emma, I
must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next
moment."
"Oh! then, don't speak it, don't speak it," she eagerly cried. "Take a little
time, consider, do not commit yourself."
"Thank you," said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not
another syllable followed.
Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in
her—perhaps to consult her;—cost her what it would, she would listen. She
might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give just praise
to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence, relieve him
from that state of indecision, which must be more intolerable than any
alternative to such a mind as his.—They had reached the house.
"My dearest Emma," said he, "for dearest you will always be, whatever
the event of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma—tell
me at once. Say 'No,' if it is to be said."— She could really say nothing.—
"You are silent," he cried, with great animation; "absolutely silent! at
present I ask no more."
Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment.
The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the
most prominent feeling.
"I cannot make speeches, Emma:" he soon resumed; and in a tone of
such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing.—
"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know
what I am.—You hear nothing but truth from me.—I have blamed you, and
lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would
have borne it.— Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma,
as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as
little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent
lover.— But you understand me.—Yes, you see, you understand my
feelings—and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear,
once to hear your voice."
While he spoke, Emma's mind was most busy, and, with all the
wonderful velocity of thought, had been able—and yet without losing a
word—to catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that
Harriet's hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as
complete a delusion as any of her own—that Harriet was nothing; that she
was every thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to Harriet
had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and that her
agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had been all
received as discouragement from herself.—And not only was there time for
these convictions, with all their glow of attendant happiness; there was
time also to rejoice that Harriet's secret had not escaped her, and to resolve
that it need not, and should not.—It was all the service she could now
render her poor friend; for as to any of that heroism of sentiment which
might have prompted her to entreat him to transfer his affection from
herself to Harriet, as infinitely the most worthy of the two—or even the
more simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at once and for ever,
without vouchsafing any motive, because he could not marry them both,
Emma had it not. She felt for Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no
flight of generosity run mad, opposing all that could be probable or
reasonable, entered her brain. She had led her friend astray, and it would
be a reproach to her for ever; but her judgment was as strong as her
feelings, and as strong as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such
alliance for him, as most unequal and degrading. Her way was clear,
though not quite smooth.—She spoke then, on being so entreated.— What
did she say?—Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does.— She
said enough to shew there need not be despair—and to invite him to say
more himself. He had despaired at one period; he had received such an
injunction to caution and silence, as for the time crushed every hope;—she
had begun by refusing to hear him.—The change had perhaps been
somewhat sudden;—her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the
conversation which she had just put an end to, might be a little
extraordinary!—She felt its inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so
obliging as to put up with it, and seek no farther explanation.
Her change was equal.—This one half-hour had given to each the same
precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same degree
of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.—On his side, there had been a long-
standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of Frank
Churchill.—He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank
Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably
enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that
had taken him from the country.—The Box Hill party had decided him on
going away. He would save himself from witnessing again such permitted,
encouraged attentions.—He had gone to learn to be indifferent.— But he
had gone to a wrong place. There was too much domestic happiness in his
brother's house; woman wore too amiable a form in it; Isabella was too
much like Emma—differing only in those striking inferiorities, which always
brought the other in brilliancy before him, for much to have been done,
even had his time been longer.—He had stayed on, however, vigorously,
day after day—till this very morning's post had conveyed the history of Jane
Fairfax.—Then, with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did
not scruple to feel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all
deserving Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety
for her, that he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain;
and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best
of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.
CHAPTER XIV
What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from
what she had brought out!—she had then been only daring to hope for a
little respite of suffering;—she was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness,
and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be greater when the
flutter should have passed away.
They sat down to tea—the same party round the same table—how often
it had been collected!—and how often had her eyes fallen on the same
shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the western
sun!—But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing like it; and it
was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her usual self to be
the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive daughter.
Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in
the breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so
anxiously hoping might not have taken cold from his ride.—Could he have
seen the heart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but without
the most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the slightest
perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of either, he
repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news he had received
from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much self-contentment, totally
unsuspicious of what they could have told him in return.
She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which
left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking up to
Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half an hour stolen
afterwards to go over the same ground again with him, literally and
figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a proper share of the
happiness of the evening before.
He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the
slightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was
brought her from Randalls—a very thick letter;—she guessed what it must
contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.— She was now in
perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she
wanted only to have her thoughts to herself—and as for understanding any
thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.—It must be waded
through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so;—a note
from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to Mrs.
Weston.
"I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the
enclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have scarcely a
doubt of its happy effect.—I think we shall never materially disagree about
the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long preface.—We are quite
well.—This letter has been the cure of all the little nervousness I have been
feeling lately.—I did not quite like your looks on Tuesday, but it was an
ungenial morning; and though you will never own being affected by
weather, I think every body feels a north-east wind.—I felt for your dear
father very much in the storm of Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning,
but had the comfort of hearing last night, by Mr. Perry, that it had not
made him ill.
"Yours ever,
"A. W."
CHAPTER XV
This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in
spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice
that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was
irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every
line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain
itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very
strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that
moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it
was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less
wrong than she had supposed—and he had suffered, and was very sorry—
and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss
Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and
could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as
heartily as ever.
She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again,
she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be
communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so
much to blame in his conduct.
"I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will
take it home with me at night."
But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she
must return it by him.
"It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my
opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will
not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it—"
"He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong,
and has nothing rational to urge.—Bad.—He ought not to have formed the
engagement.—'His father's disposition:'—he is unjust, however, to his
father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and
honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before
he endeavoured to gain it.—Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was
here."
"And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he
might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely—
but you were perfectly right."
He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That
was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether
the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish
scheme, indeed!—I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman
any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and
he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she
could."
After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's
confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more
than a word in passing.
"I perfectly agree with you, sir,"—was then his remark. "You did behave
very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through
what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his
persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he
made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.—He had induced her to place
herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and
it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering
unnecessarily.—She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying
on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even
unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable.
We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong
thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in
such a state of punishment."
Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew
uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was
deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read,
however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and,
excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of
giving pain—no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.
"There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the
Eltons," was his next observation.—"His feelings are natural.— What!
actually resolve to break with him entirely!—She felt the engagement to be
a source of repentance and misery to each—she dissolved it.—What a view
this gives of her sense of his behaviour!—Well, he must be a most
extraordinary—"
"Nay, nay, read on.—You will find how very much he suffers."
"I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter.
"'Smallridge!'—What does this mean? What is all this?"
"I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him."
"You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still you
must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I hope it does
him some service with you."
"Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for," cried Emma. "I am sure
William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you ask
mine."
She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing
of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend, who
must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family party
which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere charitable
caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in every way.
Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction from her own
enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead weight than
otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a peculiarly cruel
necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of unmerited
punishment.
CHAPTER XVI
Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley's visits; now she could
talk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense of
injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted her when
remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much might at
that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the feelings which she
had led astray herself.
She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place
in her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communication
before her, one which she only could be competent to make—the confession
of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing to do with it
at present.—She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston were
safe and well. No additional agitation should be thrown at this period
among those she loved—and the evil should not act on herself by
anticipation before the appointed time.—A fortnight, at least, of leisure and
peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more agitating, delight, should
be hers.
She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not
been into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane had
been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all the
worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.— The fear of being still
unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home, to wait
in the passage, and send up her name.— She heard Patty announcing it;
but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before made so
happily intelligible.—No; she heard nothing but the instant reply of, "Beg
her to walk up;"—and a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs by
Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no other reception of her were
felt sufficient.— Emma had never seen her look so well, so lovely, so
engaging. There was consciousness, animation, and warmth; there was
every thing which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted.—
She came forward with an offered hand; and said, in a low, but very feeling
tone,
Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if
the sound of Mrs. Elton's voice from the sitting-room had not checked her,
and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her
congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which
accounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs.
Elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every
body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the
rencontre would do them no harm.
"We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not
want opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already. I
only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is not
offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet creature!
You would have doated on her, had you gone.—But not a word more. Let
us be discreet—quite on our good behaviour.—Hush!—You remember those
lines— I forget the poem at this moment:
Now I say, my dear, in our case, for lady, read——mum! a word to the
wise.—I am in a fine flow of spirits, an't I? But I want to set your heart at
ease as to Mrs. S.—My representation, you see, has quite appeased her."
And again, on Emma's merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates's
knitting, she added, in a half whisper,
"Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is
charmingly recovered?—Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest
credit?—(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my word,
Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!— Oh! if you had seen her,
as I did, when she was at the worst!"— And when Mrs. Bates was saying
something to Emma, whispered farther, "We do not say a word of any
assistance that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young physician
from Windsor.—Oh! no; Perry shall have all the credit."
"I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse," she
shortly afterwards began, "since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant party.
But yet I think there was something wanting. Things did not seem—that is,
there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.—So it appeared to me
at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think it answered so far as to
tempt one to go again. What say you both to our collecting the same party,
and exploring to Box Hill again, while the fine weather lasts?— It must be
the same party, you know, quite the same party, not one exception."
Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being
diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting, she
supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say every
thing.
"Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that
anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth is,
that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me here, and
pay his respects to you."
"What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?— That will
be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and
Mr. Elton's time is so engaged."
Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, "Is Mr.
Elton gone on foot to Donwell?—He will have a hot walk."
"Have not you mistaken the day?" said Emma. "I am almost certain that
the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.—Mr. Knightley was at
Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday."
"Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day," was the abrupt answer, which
denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton's side.— "I do
believe," she continued, "this is the most troublesome parish that ever was.
We never heard of such things at Maple Grove."
"Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject
talked of."
"But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard you
speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only
school, and not more than five-and-twenty children."
"Ah! you clever creature, that's very true. What a thinking brain you
have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if we
could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would produce
perfection.—Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that some people
may not think you perfection already.—But hush!—not a word, if you
please."
Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.
His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent object
was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he
had had for nothing.
"When I got to Donwell," said he, "Knightley could not be found. Very
odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and the
message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one."
"Donwell!" cried his wife.—"My dear Mr. E., you have not been to
Donwell!—You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown."
"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-
day on that very account.—Such a dreadful broiling morning!— I went over
the fields too—(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made it so
much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I am not
at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The housekeeper
declared she knew nothing of my being expected.— Very extraordinary!—
And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to Hartfield,
perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.— Miss Woodhouse,
this is not like our friend Knightley!—Can you explain it?"
"I cannot imagine," said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife
ought to do,) "I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of all
people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to be
forgotten!—My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure
he must.—Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;— and his
servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely to
happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed,
extremely awkward and remiss.—I am sure I would not have such a
creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And as
for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.—She promised
Wright a receipt, and never sent it."
"I met William Larkins," continued Mr. Elton, "as I got near the house,
and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not believe
him.—William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what was
come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech
of him. I have nothing to do with William's wants, but it really is of very
great importance that I should see Knightley to-day; and it becomes a
matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I should have had this
hot walk to no purpose."
Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In all
probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr. Knightley
might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if
not towards William Larkins.
"It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you not
been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to introduce
a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might have been
strictly correct.—I feel that I should certainly have been impertinent."
"Oh!" cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought
infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual
composure—"there would have been no danger. The danger would have
been of my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than by
expressing an interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more
collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very great
misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those of my
friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not disgusted to
such a degree as to—I have not time for half that I could wish to say. I long
to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for myself. I feel it so very
due. But, unfortunately—in short, if your compassion does not stand my
friend—"
"Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are," cried Emma warmly, and
taking her hand. "You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you
might be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted
even—"
"You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.— So
cold and artificial!—I had always a part to act.—It was a life of deceit!—I
know that I must have disgusted you."
"Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.
Let us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done
quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you have
pleasant accounts from Windsor?"
"Very."
"And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you—just as
I begin to know you."
"You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you, (I am
sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill at
Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months, at least, of deep
mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing more to
wait for."
Mrs. Weston's friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the
satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by
knowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in
wishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with
any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella's
sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father and
mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew older—
and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence—to have his
fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks and the
fancies of a child never banished from home; and Mrs. Weston—no one
could doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it would be quite a
pity that any one who so well knew how to teach, should not have their
powers in exercise again.
"She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me," she
continued—"like La Baronne d'Almane on La Comtesse d'Ostalis, in
Madame de Genlis' Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her own
little Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan."
"That is," replied Mr. Knightley, "she will indulge her even more than
she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will be the
only difference."
"Poor child!" cried Emma; "at that rate, what will become of her?"
Emma laughed, and replied: "But I had the assistance of all your
endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt whether
my own sense would have corrected me without it."
"Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:— Miss
Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was
quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what
right has he to lecture me?—and I am afraid very natural for you to feel
that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any
good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest
affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on
you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in
love with you ever since you were thirteen at least."
"I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often
influenced rightly by you—oftener than I would own at the time. I am very
sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it
will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have
done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen."
"How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of
your saucy looks—'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I
may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'—something which, you knew, I did not
approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings
instead of one."
"I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about
ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you
made no objection, I never did it again."
"Impossible!—I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will
not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling
you Mr. K.—But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and
blushing—"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not
say when, but perhaps you may guess where;—in the building in which N.
takes M. for better, for worse."
Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important
service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice
which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies—her
wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.—She
could not enter on it.— Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them.
This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but
Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from
some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware
herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should
have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested,
as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it
was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was
very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
"John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is
his answer, if you like to see it."
"He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the
letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good
fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without
hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me
already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not
have believed him."
"He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,"
interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—"much less, perhaps, than he
is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject."
"Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother
does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and
hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing you
justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of
the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma'
with him at once.— His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can
go no farther."
"Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as
John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be
happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter—did you notice
it?—where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by
surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the
kind."
"If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some
thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly
unprepared for that."
The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other
persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently
recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her
gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to
announce it at home, and then at Randalls.— But how to break it to her
father at last!—She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr.
Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have
failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at
such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.—She was forced
to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided
subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not
appear to think it a misfortune.—With all the spirits she could command,
she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words,
said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained—which, she
trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to
promote the happiness of all—she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by
which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's
company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston,
best in the world.
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was
overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the
rest.— To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's,
whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he
was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.— They had
all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest
approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider
the subject in the most serviceable light—first, as a settled, and, secondly,
as a good one—well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two
recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.—It was agreed upon, as what
was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him
that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which
almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other—in another
year or two, perhaps—it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take
place.
Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said
to him in favour of the event.—She had been extremely surprized, never
more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it
only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the
utmost.—She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved
even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and
unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest
importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it
seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other
creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not
having thought of it, and wished it long ago.—How very few of those men
in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home
for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr.
Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!— The difficulty
of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's
plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle
the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment—
less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself—but even he had never
been able to finish the subject better than by saying—"Those matters will
take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there
was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all
right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a
union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real,
rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.
Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections
as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could
increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have
outgrown its first set of caps.
In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him,
and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend
their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John
Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants;
but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in
one habitation, the Vicarage.—There, the surprize was not softened by any
satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only
hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she
had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of
living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"— But Mrs.
Elton was very much discomposed indeed.—"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!—
sad business for him.—She was extremely concerned; for, though very
eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.— How could he be so taken
in?—Did not think him at all in love—not in the least.—Poor Knightley!—
There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.—How happy
he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But
that would be all over now.— Poor fellow!—No more exploring parties to
Donwell made for her. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw
cold water on every thing.—Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all
sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.—Shocking plan,
living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove
who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first
quarter.
CHAPTER XVIII
Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London
would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it
one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her,
when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After
the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began
with,
"Oh! good I am sure.—I see it in your countenance. You are trying not
to smile."
"I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid,
my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it."
"Indeed! but why so?—I can hardly imagine that any thing which
pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too."
"There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not
think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her
face. "Does nothing occur to you?— Do not you recollect?—Harriet Smith."
Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something,
though she knew not what.
"Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I
believe, and know the whole."
"You are prepared for the worst, I see—and very bad it is. Harriet
Smith marries Robert Martin."
Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared—and her
eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed.
"It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert
Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago."
She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.
"You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.—I wish our opinions were
the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or
the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk
much on the subject."
"You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself.
"It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I
cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!—You cannot mean to say, that
Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has
even proposed to her again—yet. You only mean, that he intends it."
"I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but
determined decision, "and been accepted."
"It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago,
and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to
John.—He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked
by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to
take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and
sister, Henry, John—and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist.
They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my
brother asked him to dine with them the next day—which he did—and in
the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of
speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.—She made him,
by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by
yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after
breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his
own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend
Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.— She will give
you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make
interesting.—In our communications we deal only in the great.—However, I
must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for him, and to me, very
overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the
purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of
Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and
Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss
Smith rather uneasy."
He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself
not to smile too broadly—she did—cheerfully answering,
"You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I
should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very,
very determined against any young man who told her he loved her."
The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and
Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so
strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's
side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I
hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really
expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could
not be otherwise.
"Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose
me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?— What
do you deserve?"
"Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with
any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you
quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet
now are?"
"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and
most sincerely wish them happy."
"And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all
Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for
Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much
in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to
her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have
thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause,
which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of
her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously
good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of
domestic life.— Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for."
Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the
horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had,
therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be
imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of
Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for
security.—What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of
him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own.
Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and
circumspection in future.
High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the
reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon
be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise,
might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and
perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a
duty.
In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not
always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in
speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being
obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be
disappointed.
"It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to
tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He
stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day
with us.—They are coming in, I hope."
In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to
see him—but there was a degree of confusion—a number of embarrassing
recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a
consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat
down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma
began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of
seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield
its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however,
and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or
animation—or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near
her and say,
"I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving
message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less
willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said."
"No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am
particularly glad to see and shake hands with you—and to give you joy in
person."
He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak
with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.
"Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane. "Better
than she ever used to do?—You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat
upon her."
But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after
mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of
Dixon.—Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.
"I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame."
"The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible
that you had no suspicion?—I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none."
"I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay
a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells
are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till
we may carry her northward.—But now, I am at such a distance from her—
is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?— Till this morning, we have not once met
since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?"
Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of
gay thought, he cried,
"Ah! by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the
moment—"I hope Mr. Knightley is well?" He paused.—She coloured and
laughed.—"I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my
wish in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.— I assure you
that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.—He
is a man whom I cannot presume to praise."
Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style;
but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own
Jane, and his next words were,
"Did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness! such delicacy!—and
yet without being actually fair.—One cannot call her fair. It is a most
uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair—a most
distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.— Just colour enough
for beauty."
"I have always admired her complexion," replied Emma, archly; "but do
not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so
pale?— When we first began to talk of her.—Have you quite forgotten?"
But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help
saying,
"I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you had
very great amusement in tricking us all.—I am sure you had.— I am sure it
was a consolation to you."
"Oh! no, no, no—how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the
most miserable wretch!"
He bowed.
"If not in our dispositions," she presently added, with a look of true
sensibility, "there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which bids fair to
connect us with two characters so much superior to our own."
"True, true," he answered, warmly. "No, not true on your side. You can
have no superior, but most true on mine.—She is a complete angel. Look at
her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her throat.
Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.— You will be glad to
hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my uncle means to
give her all my aunt's jewels. They are to be new set. I am resolved to have
some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be beautiful in her dark
hair?"
"Very beautiful, indeed," replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that
he gratefully burst out,
"How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent
looks!—I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should
certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come."
The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an
account of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the
infant's appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish, but it
had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of sending for Mr.
Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had been almost
as uneasy as herself.—In ten minutes, however, the child had been
perfectly well again. This was her history; and particularly interesting it
was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her very much for thinking of
sending for Perry, and only regretted that she had not done it. "She should
always send for Perry, if the child appeared in the slightest degree
disordered, were it only for a moment. She could not be too soon alarmed,
nor send for Perry too often. It was a pity, perhaps, that he had not come
last night; for, though the child seemed well now, very well considering, it
would probably have been better if Perry had seen it."
Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in
the laugh, it was evident from Jane's countenance that she too was really
hearing him, though trying to seem deaf.
Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly
remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet
steady voice,
"How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!— They will
sometimes obtrude—but how you can court them!"
CHAPTER XIX
The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her
fresh reason for thinking so.—Harriet's parentage became known. She
proved to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the
comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to
have always wished for concealment.—Such was the blood of gentility
which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!— It was likely to be
as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a
connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley—or for the
Churchills—or even for Mr. Elton!— The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached
by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.
No objection was raised on the father's side; the young man was treated
liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted with
Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully
acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could
bid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet's happiness with
any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he offered, there
would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and improvement. She
would be placed in the midst of those who loved her, and who had better
sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and occupied enough for
cheerfulness. She would be never led into temptation, nor left for it to find
her out. She would be respectable and happy; and Emma admitted her to
be the luckiest creature in the world, to have created so steady and
persevering an affection in such a man;—or, if not quite the luckiest, to
yield only to herself.
Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the
comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.—The Mr. Churchills
were also in town; and they were only waiting for November.
The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by
Emma and Mr. Knightley.—They had determined that their marriage ought
to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow
them the fortnight's absence in a tour to the seaside, which was the plan.—
John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in approving it. But
Mr. Woodhouse—how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to consent?—he,
who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event.
When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were
almost hopeless.—A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.— He began to
think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it—a very promising step
of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not happy.
Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter's courage failed.
She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying himself
neglected; and though her understanding almost acquiesced in the
assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when once the event were over,
his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated—she could not proceed.
The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary,
cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the
moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day—and Mr. Elton was called
on, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to
join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.
The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties
have no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars
detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior
to her own.—"Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful
business!—Selina would stare when she heard of it."—But, in spite of these
deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the
small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully
answered in the perfect happiness of the union.
FINIS
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